That Which Makes Us
by Radio Free Death
Summary: After a series of failed attempts to bring Panem closer together after the fall of the Capitol, the Mockingjay seizes control. The Games are still running to satisfy the crowd's bloodlust. Not everyone agrees and begin their own rebellions: a boy who attempts to break out of the arena, to a woman who is caught between duty and family. A deconstruction of HG.
1. Part One

**Hello everyone! A few things before you begin:**

The story's events take place fifty-two years after the events in _Mockingjay_ and includes the twenty years mentioned in the epilogue. With that said, it is also going to be a character-driven story, with more emphasis on them and the world than the Games.

The worldbuilding in the novels are terrible so emphasis is now placed on fixing that. This also goes for characters and the concept of the Games themselves. Be warned. If you don't like pithy philosophical musings, layered characters, or alternative perspectives, then you probably won't like this story.

This story is a **collaboration** with another author. Thanks to _the wistful mouse_ for being our beta!

And as always, critique is welcomed and encouraged! Thank you and enjoy the story.

**Disclaimer:** We don't own _The Hunger Games_ and we're in no way affiliated with Suzanne Collins. For the geographical aspects, we have used aspects already existing in the official map (the Facebook one) when we could. We also don't own the quotes used in the story and credits are given at the end of each one.

**(NOTE:** Finished edits! Hopefully the story's easier to follow, now with a list of the districts below.)

* * *

**Part One**

* * *

There is a desperate search for identity and meaning in a faraway distant past or conceptions in some lost cultural basis, echoed in sources like Rebecca Finch's _In Memory, _all the way back to President Paylor's _Address to the Nation._

[...]

This nostalgia can be glanced just looking upon the ethnology, yet still filtered through the lenses given by the oppressors. **District Three** renamed itself after the Hellenic forge god **Hephaestus**, providing weapons for the Capitol the same way Hephaestus provided weapons for the gods…the forge god was a sign of progress, and District Three still retains a love for their old industry.

It is a sentiment echoed by others such as **District Eleven** choosing the name **Arcadia**, meaning "heaven on earth"…**District One** as **Glitter Gulch**, a name with a double meaning, reflecting their old industry and the machines that still glitter in the sun…**District** **Four**...and **Thirteen**...(becoming) **Pacifica**…and **Labrys**...

[...]

Others chose to delve into a more local mythological context, denying the Capitol influence. One could only look at the former **District Six, **choosing the name **Lincoln**, after the legendary warlord and warrior of the Old World... **District Five**…to…**Mjollnir** drew inspiration from a Germanic tradition…An attempt by the people of Panem's "Hammer of Power" to seek an identity for themselves…**District Nine,** naming itself after the old **Windsor **Enclave…and **District Ten**, whose chosen name of **Aztlan** or **Aztl****á****n**, reflects upon an ancestral, mythical home of the Mexica, or Aztec peoples, of Old Mexico.

[…]

**District Two**, having little control within their own territory since after the Second Rebellion, also had little control over the unified voting of their identity or district, which is now known as **The Bucket**…named so by the penal colony of the same name.

…in response to Finch's claim, the inhabitants of **District Seven **chose **Fringe** due to the distance between settlements, and the large rural expansions wetting out towards the northern wastes of Old Canada.

[…]

Lady Mockingjay's own home of the former **District Twelve** adapted the title of **The Eyrie **years before the Lady's subsequent rise to power…and the former **District Eight** chose instead to identify itself as "the melting-pot of the new age" (Finch 123), a burgeoning **Sprawl.** There should be no surprise that these are the places most loyal towards our government and integrated into the current social order. There is after all a reason, besides practicality why the **Sprawl **every year has the honor of embracing unity by hosting the Games.

-From "What's in a Name?: An Essay and Discussion on the Nationalism and the Reclamation of Culture in the New Protecorate of Panem", Professor Jonathan C. Chase, University of New Spokane, Fringe.

(edited by Anna Quinn, Proofreader of New Spokane, Devoted servant of the Lady Mockingjay and the People)

* * *

_The Games bring everyone together._

_They are gathered outside, wielding signs like spears, screaming and dancing. It is hard to make out individual groups. When I focus on one, others move in and swallow them up. More people come, far more than the Praetorians or the Oculi could contain._

_The guards fuss enough for me to look away from my window. It certainly wasn't mealtime. Suspended between them was my visitor. Disheveled, dirty, tracking mud on my floors. I didn't offer a seat and remained standing. We are silent for some time._

_I prefer the silence when I'm measuring someone. Less distractions. My visitor is all sharp edges, skin stretched tight over his bones, the notches of his belt showing his emaciation. Using his name would be odd for me. It suggested closeness, humanity, and my visitor looked no more human than a scarecrow._

_"You don't happen to have a smoke, do you?" I ask as I cock my head. "It's funny, but I could really kill for some right now."_

_I see a spasm of both rage and agony pass across his face and he shakes his head._

_"Figures." A slight chuckle escapes my lips as I turn my back on him to resume sightseeing._

_Outside the window I see not one but three bonfires getting started. I can almost smell the smoke as it chokes a whole street. There is a large thunderclap as the sky flared above, illuminated by the rockets. Fire in the sky and fire on the ground. The stench of sulfur soon reaches my nose. As the loud bang dies out, I get distracted as I see a fluttering of dark wings as a flock of birds dart across the sky._

_I twitch a gnarled hand as I watch them fly. Can I still hit them if I try? It was so many years, nearly a lifetime since my fingers touched a string or a thin shaft of wood. I forget about the world for just a second as I remove myself and sink into my mind. In there, I see a young woman with black hair in the forest. She is mottled green, brown, black, and gray, reaching some kind of fusion as she joined the trees and dirt. Not yet a woman, her fingers resolute and untouched by rheumatism, all hard elbows and joints. I envy her._

_I look out my window again, hopping from one scene to the next like a stone skidding across water. I can see one small form sitting on the shoulders of the crowd, bobbing up and down as if she were in water. It always came back to the children. For some reason it always does. I wonder what that says about us._

_They're silent behind me. Too silent. Statue-like. This is more than professionalism, more than just doing their jobs. They are waiting for me to react, to take hold of the situation. I eventually oblige, my eyes never leaving the outside. "So, are you just going to stand there or grab yourself a chair?"_

_No response. Naturally. Fine with me. Not done talking yet._

_"There was this old birch," I begin, easing gently into my ramblings. I squint as another flash brightens the sky. "It was on the top of this small hill so you could get a good view of the lake and the tree just gave the extra boost." A smile crosses my face. "I'd help my sister up into the higher branches. Don't know if it made any difference in the end as it only gave more branches to block the view, but she never complained. I guess because of how rare the fireworks were to begin with." I don't even fight the sigh. "Never thought that a comfy chair and windows really wouldn't do it justice."_

_Silence from my guest. Facing me had no doubt knocked out his pretty little prepared speeches, all his bluster scooped from him. It was making me angry. The fire I imagined must have been from outside after all._

_"Do I have to order you?" I say, turning around to face him. "I'm asking you to sit down. I'm sure you're tired after—"_

_He lunges at me. His hands snap like jaws at my face and like a dog, he is hauled back by the scruff. His face is lit up by the passing explosions of the outside. His anger fanning against the world on fire._

_"Don't!" he says, his bark making him sound like a mutt. It was raw and deep. "Don't you dare screw with me." He lowers his voice at the end as if it would make him more menacing. I give him a withering look. The guards grip him harder. Their eyes are doing their best to look away from mine as they do. I have that effect on some people while our guest might not. Instead he continues to talk._

_"I'm tired of lies and even more tired of goddamned games!" He takes a few deep breaths. His hands are shaking from exhaustion. The dirt smeared across his face further hollows his features. "You know why I'm here. So don't try and pretend it's about anything else."_

_My head cocks slightly to side. It's an involuntary response at this point. "And pray tell," I say. "Just to indulge a senile old woman, what might that be?"_

_"The truth."_

_I laugh. Oh, that's rich. "There's no such thing."_

_"Then I suggest you bring up the part with the least lies. I've earned that much. Winner's due, remember?"_

_"Fair enough," I say as I turn stiffly towards the tallest of the two guards, a woman with sharp cheekbones and large brown eyes. "I saw you carrying a pack of cigarettes in your left pocket. I suggest you let go of the boy, hand me one, and then leave us alone." I don't have to see her eyes to notice the hesitation._

_"Ma'am, I don't think…"_

_"Left pocket. Then pull up a chair. It's going to take some time and I'm not gonna have either one of you buzzing over me like gnats."_

_She wavers for a bit, her eyes still locked on our guest for a while. Probably weighing which one of us is the bigger threat. Eventually her hands drop as her friend follows suit. Soldier's behavior, after all. They still haven't forgotten about the yellow bird on their collars, it would seem._

_Soon enough, a second chair is pulled up. My guest has to be pushed in it. He will not do anything if they searched him and feeble as I am, I can hold my own. I am still here, after all. That counts for something._

_It takes a few minutes before they finally leave us alone. I take a long drag on the cigarette as the door closes behind us. Then, with the taste of ashes in my mouth, I began to tell him a tale._


	2. Sami

**SAMI**

The hallway smelled like a cocktail of cleaning chemicals, making Sami almost wonder if he'd stepped into a hospital. The smell seeping from the open door of number sixty-seven was a little encouraging. It had a warm apple smell, like someone was either baking a pie or lit a few scented candles.

Its owner didn't look nearly as serene.

Mr. Norton's long arms were folded across his chest, regarding Sami warily. Sami's back was still aching, as if someone had replaced his spine with an old rake and he was unable to curl it without his shoulders crumbling with pain.

"I hope it's not broken," Mr. Norton said, glaring at him. "I remember the last time I received a package. One of you kids threw it around and left it at the front instead of delivering it to me personally."

_One of you kids?_ he thought. "You may check the box if you like, sir."

"I'm just saying. You would've just rolled it over if I wasn't here watching you. It's a shame how something as simple as a delivery brings unwanted grief. Almost wish the Second Rebellion failed."

_Is that a joke? _Sami narrowed his eyes slightly. It was hard to tell Mr. Norton's age. Judging by appearances wasn't always credible, especially when hardships blurred the lines a bit. His name—Kell Norton—said very little when Sami couldn't place his age. Even if Mr. Norton was born before the Second Rebellion and given a name that matched the district he was in, that didn't mean he was loyal to the Capitol before it had been overthrown. Kell could mean anything. It was a dead end. It was pointless to gnaw on an issue nearly fifty-two years old.

"It weighs sixty pounds, sir," said Sami.

Mr. Norton's eyes narrowed. "You being smart with me?"

"No, sir."

"Because I work hard. You probably hear that a lot and you don't pay any mind to it either, I bet." Mr. Norton snatched the pad from Sami's hands and scrawled his signature. Then he handed it back and pulled out a pocketknife. Sami watched as he tore the tape off with three quick strokes and dug his hands through the packaging foam. Down the hallway, a dog started barking and a woman told it to shut up.

When the man started hauling the package inside, Sami tipped his hat. "Have a nice day, sir." He received no answer. On his way downstairs, a child was sitting on one of the concrete steps. She stared up at him with large eyes like a cat. He passed her by, stopped outside the truck, and took a deep breath. Sami straightened slowly, stiff, rusty, like a wagon.

A_pt, _he thought, smiling inwardly. _Very apt, Ma._

Liv had told him once that her aunt Ester said she resembled Liv's ma with their smooth foreheads, high cheekbones, and reddish lips. As part of the trade, Sami told her who he mostly resembled.

"Bullshit."

"It's true."

"Your stepmom did not compare you to a wagon."

"You haven't seen it."

She laughed, a small bark, amused and curious. "Alright. Show me."

Belowground his home and in storage, the wagon had sat there on the cold, damp concrete like a tired old dog. Its blue paint was fading at the corners. It had long, wavy scars exposing the rust underneath. The boards had started to flake apart. When he gripped the handle and gave it a tug, the tires squealed.

Sami and the wagon, reunited at last like brothers separated at birth. The comparisons were subtle, but there. He was short and broad, copper-skinned, dark-eyed. Tiny grey hairs were spreading above ears that were a little too big. Deep frown lines cut through his face and a pink scar crossed the top of his skull. He was missing a joint on his left index finger. Dark stubble scattered along his jawline and under his slim nose, worn smooth by the many times he rubbed it. The wagon had gone from carrying his ma as a child, to his siblings, to junk, to retirement. Sami likewise had gone from being a picker, to a box-taper, to a courier at Veston. He might still last just as long as the wagon.

"Well," Liv had said after a while, a slow grin spreading across her face. "It _is_ ugly."

Sami only smiled.

He wasn't smiling now.

He groaned and rubbed his hands down his sides and stretched his back. _I need to be oiled_, he thought to himself.

Sami pushed the trolley in the back of the package truck. The pain wasn't going away. He slid into the driver's seat and rooted out a container of pills stuffed in between the seats. He popped two out on his palm and dry swallowed them. He should've taken them before he left home. It would take at least half an hour for the pills to kick in, but his back had been fine this morning.

He hit the ignition and the truck came awake. So did the radio.

"…and it just shows how pathetic they really are."

Sami gave a slanted smile and raised the volume a little. It was time for the sermons of Reggie Sherman, host of his own radio talk show, The Shout. His favorite subjects were about the Capitolites (_Cappies_ if you wanted to be offensive) and their culture. Sherman always had something offensive to say to the people who once ruled the country of Panem, saying things like how President Paylor, Panem's first elected president, was far too nice with her embargo on the Capitol.

Sherman wasn't talking about the Capitolites today. As Sami listened, he realized Sherman was discussing a more recent event.

"I know what some of you are thinking right now. 'But, Reg, times are tough. Fuel's running low, these people are losing their jobs and even the _Cappies_ are better off than some of them! Don't the good folk of Lincoln have a right to be angry? Maybe if we'd just give them what they want, Blake and his fellas wouldn't be jacking convoys.'" Reggie Sherman worked himself up to his theatrical break before continuing. "Well, my friend, I could just call you out for being wrong, but that's discounting how insulting that thinking is."

"Oh please," Sami muttered, but kept listening. If Liv had been with him, they would both listen and then ride over Reggie's opinion with theirs, discrediting or insulting him. Alone, Sami paid close attention, hoping to tell Liv about Reggie's new bullshit.

"That's why my main thought of the day to you is to endure. We are nothing but survivors and whenever these naysayers sprout their treasonous propaganda they're insulting you. It's more than a month before the Games are upon us again and these thugs would seek to ruin its sanctity with their terrorism. They might as well be spitting on the lives of our brave tributes." Reggie paused and his voice hinted at a smile. "If I'd have to choose between having to ration some fuel or giving in to Mister Blake's childish bellyaching, well…"

Sami scoffed.

"I'd rather just hand over my keys to our boys and girls in the Praetorians than give him the satisfaction. In the words of Our Lady Mockingjay, strength and unity, my friends! It's either us or them."

He turned it off before _Fire Rising_ started playing. He drove in irritable silence. He gnawed at Mr. Norton's expression and behavior. It was a childish notion. Sami had encountered men and women who were worse, insulting him or giving him a hard time when he delivered the wrong package—honest mistake on his part or mixup at Veston—and he had met people who were bona fide loyalists to the Capitol when it had still been in power. Most of them continued on the demeaning pastime of naming children by appliances and whatever resemblance came to mind. They refused to integrate to other districts and refused to mingle with others from other districts. He tried to avoid them. Hearing them or seeing them would only make him upset.

The truck swayed a little as the tires went over a few bumps towards Durbin Square. "Used to be a wire and cable factory supervised by Swinch C. Durbin," Ma had told him once. She was fond of telling him bits of history that wasn't colored by her own beliefs. He followed the hopeful thought, imaging her warm arm on his shoulder.

"When the Second Rebellion broke out, Durbin allowed the rebels to hole up in there," his Ma had said, pointing at the lone statue in the center and allowing him to imagine what the factory must've looked like. "Then the Capitolites came in and destroyed it. Nearly took down the whole of Old Three. They even say that Beetee the Victor used to work here in his youth and that President Paylor raised the statue to honor him."

He liked that about his Ma. Not so much what she was saying, but how she was saying it. She didn't simplify anything. He had looked at the statue and thought, _Cool!_ And an even pressing thought, or maybe that was just his older self making assumptions,_ I want to be like him._

It hadn't mattered if the old wire and cable factory was just one of sixteen places in Hephaestus Beetee had supposedly worked at or been to. It hadn't mattered if this locale was perfect for a social gathering. At the time he hadn't though twice of it, his mind ablaze with the brave rebels and dastardly Capitolites of Pre-Renaming history.

He hadn't been alive to see President Paylor give her speech, but he had seen the vids and it had felt like another time entirely. "Strip off your chains," she had said, addressing the shifting, swarming crowd from the square and the cameras. "Strip off your chains and resume your old identities. The Capitol is no longer watching you, no longer controlling you. You are no longer designated by numbers or industries. You are people." She had to shout to be heard, the roar so deafening that even Sami had been caught by it. He was shouting even though nobody could've heard him, least of all Paylor.

It hadn't been until years later when he found out that the people didn't jump up to change as enthusiastically as they cheered. As if the boot of the Capitol was still pressing on their necks, it took years for the system to catch on, and some names, like the Fringe for Old Seven, or even the Praetorians for Peacekeepers, were barely a step above what had already been familiar.

Beetee's statue no longer filled him with blind patriotism as it had in the past. Despite the Praetorians' effort to keep it clean, the statue was caked in birdshit and smeared with sexual suggestions. Sami couldn't read them from where he was, but he could imagine the words. He had been thinking of adding to the words one night, until a small gang of protestors had gotten there first.

The protestors had been speaking through a megaphone about the government. There was a crowd forming around them, but they offered no resistance as Sami pushed himself up to the front to listen. He could no longer remember specifics, but it was the context that had gotten to him. The protesters had started attacking the people of Hephaestus by addressing them as "people of Old Three" and accused them all of being no better than the Capitol itself.

"Twenty-one years after Paylor, there were no Games. Not until the Mockingjay rose to power, and all of you supported her decision to bring back the Games. Thirty years of blood! Thirty years of children dying!"

And Sami had started cheering with the rest until he realized that the rest were hissing and booing, the children in the crowd spitting and throwing rocks or clumps of mud in the direction of the protesters. The Praetorians, who must've been watching the scene for some time, had become heroes, arresting the protesters while the crowd cheered. Sami had slunk away and kicked and punched at air when no one was looking.

_Damn, this didn't help at all._ He set his jaw and drove a little faster.

His gut twisted as something split and burst under the wheels. He slammed the breaks and opened his door just as a fruit vendor got out of his chair, a cigarette gripped between his teeth.

"No, no, you're fine—it's fine!" the man said as Sami started stammering. "It's just a melon. See?" The man pointed at the remains still wedged under the tire, sticky juice dribbling into the stones.

Relief came out of Sami in a shaky sigh, but he was still lightheaded and he had to check twice to make sure it was just a melon and the wad of newspapers were just newspapers and not an animal or a child that had decided to crawl underneath to get the jump on somebody.

The fruit vender seized a melon from his plastic cart and offered it to him. Sami shook his head, wincing as he rubbed his back.

"No, no, I have to get back to work."

He had a feeling that the man found him amusing even though the man didn't laugh. The melon incident stubbornly clung on, taping over his thoughts of Reggie Sherman, Liv, and the protesters, making his arms prickle. He watched the narrow roads carefully, stopping only to let pedestrians cross over. There were a lot of them clustering around the open markets, either coming in and out of the stores like ants or swarming outdoor vendors. The whole street on both sides was one large, almost rectangular-like building segmented in several portions. Venders and shops on the ground floor, and housing on the second, third, all the way up to the twentieth. He was lucky he didn't have to deliver anything here. Pushing through the crowds into one of six entrances into the complex would've been taxing.

Sami was already starting to loosen a bit. The melon incident was several miles back now. His back was hurting a little less. He turned off the A/C with a push of a button and lowered his window down a fraction to let the warm spring air in. There was a hint of salt on his tongue and a humid, greasy smell spiced with food and fuel. Grilled rubberfish did little to improve the smell and the Kiri Bar holos weren't making the manipulated images of food and drink appealing.

Sami was getting closer to his final destination. He was nervous, as if he had been caught in a lie. It was as if Liv's brother, his one-time idol, would become uncomfortably real. That was probably why The Victor's Rest was pushed further out towards the river. With fences and security keeping the public at bay, Hephaestus' winners would continue to become exaggerated.

He pulled up in the truck towards the gate. He saw a woman moving from inside one of the guard posts, watching him impassively as he came closer to the window. She was dressed in the black and green uniform of the Praetorians.

Sami's palms were sweating. Praetorian uniforms unsettled him and so did the semi-automatic slung across her back. Another Praetorian was watching them as the woman came closer.

"Hello, ma'am," Sami said.

"ID," the woman said, holding out a hand.

Sami wiped his hands on his pants, unhooked his ID card, and handed it over. He watched her scan the ID using a device hanging from her belt, and punched a few things into her pad.

"Let me see the order," she said after a while.

He handed her his pad. The woman was soon joined by another and Sami saw that a third Praetorian was at the post. He slid a little lower into his seat, not guilty of anything, but fearing that he had done something wrong.

The woman turned towards Sami in the truck. "Fair enough. Once your job's done you'll come out this way again. If we catch you loitering about any longer than that or receive any complaints, you will be filed for trespassing on government property. You understand?"

Sami nodded stiffly.

The woman gave a curt one back as she and the other walked over to the booth and within less than a couple of seconds the gate started opening and Sami went through.

As a child, he, like most kids in his class, had always dreamed of living in a place like this. The houses here were spread apart from one another, built whenever there was a winner as opposed to being built all at once. They had a big patch of grass on the front, back, and sides of the house, no small patches of dirt on the rooftops or narrow baloneys big enough to maybe grow a few plants. There were trees and bushes and flowers. He could even smell the river, though it wasn't a pleasant odor.

There were two homes squatting in the grass. The first one—or rather the one nearest the gate—was occupied by Hephaestus' first victor, Ames Mealy, who won at sixteen. The name was awkward on Sami's tongue. It sounded amputated, as if once Ames had been James. Ames hadn't offered an explanation. None of the hosts or journalists had asked, probably because they've heard weirder. As far as traditional names like Ampere or Diode, Ames was alright.

The windows to Ames' home were open. Sami squinted to see if he could catch a glimpse of the forty-three year old victor, and saw nothing but white walls and a bookcase. He caught an edge of something that could've been a portrait, but that was all.

The next house stood out of the lineup. The grass grew thick and wild like his pa's beard. The windows had a thick layer of grime. There was a brown boot sitting out in the grass like a lost puppy, tongue flapping, laces askew. Sami pulled up on the side of the road and looked around for the other boot and couldn't find it. He also couldn't find any traces of a broken window if it had been flung.

It had once belonged to Mark Pinner, but nobody really called him Mark, just Chipper. He had been easy to smile, his parents and older relatives had said, and Sami had to take their word for it. At twenty-four, Chipper had been hit by a car on his way to the store and his head cracked open in the street. Sami had been three at the time. All he remembered of Chipper were in the reruns.

Sami straightened slowly and went back into the truck and pulled out Henri's package. It wasn't big. He easily tucked it underneath his arm, though he had to be careful. The contents were stamped fragile.

He made it out of the truck no problem, but as soon as he went up the driveway his stomach started turning again. He breathed deeply, walking on each smooth layer of concrete as if everything else around him had suddenly turned to flames. _Don't step in the flames. The grass are flames, _he repeated, a children's chant that relaxed him.

The door was covered by a grille. Speakers were bolted into the wall with a small black button. Swallowing the bundle of worms in his throat, he pushed the button. No answer. He tried twice more, wiping his hand on his pants. He squinted, looking up, wondering what to do next.

"Yeah?"

The voice made him jump. It was sharp and crisp and sounded a little irritated.

"Mister Keeler?"

"Yeah?"

The voice sounded nothing like what he had imagined, but of course the only time he had ever talked to Henri face-to-face was a year after Henri had won, when Sami was eight years old. The voice on TV was older and the face had changed, but Henri sounded a little tired, as if talking had taxed him.

"I'm…" _Damn it. _He rummaged through his mind for the lines he had forgotten. "I'm the ah, the courier. I got an uhm, a package for you."

"Yeah?"

"I need you to come down and pick it up. Sir."

"Busy. Leave it by the door."

Sami removed his hat and wiped at his itching, moist forehead. "I can't do that. I need you to sign, to confirm that you've received it. Otherwise I'll get in trouble with my supervisor."

There was a long moment of silence. Sami was being scrutinized, not just by a hidden camera, but by the presence of his lover Liv. _See, I told you, _she was saying. _What did I say? My brother's not at all what you imagined him to be._

"Top floor, then," said Henri. "Third room to the left."

The door clicked and he pushed it open. A cold blast of air pierced through his clothes. He pushed the door open with the edges of his fingers and drew his hand back quickly when the door swung fully open.

Sami tried not to stare as he went up the stairs, but he couldn't help looking from side to side as if the home had turned into a museum and everything was on display. He had expected…what, dirt? Mess? Filth? The house was fairly clean. There were no bags of dirty laundry or food on the floor, the floor didn't sink under his feet. The home smelled musty, as if Henri hadn't bothered to air it out in some time.

Sami didn't even have time to knock before the third door on the left opened and Henri put one large, bare foot forward and regarded him.

Henri Keeler in the screens, holos, and various posters had been tall and straight, looking his twenty-six years. His hair and face were shaved. He had been all smiles as he shook hands and held interviews with hosts. He laughed when people called him the Axeman of Hephaestus. This Henri Keeler reminded Sami of someone who had just woken out of a coma, bewildered and confused.

Henri's body was bent double and even with his shoulders pushed forward he was still a very tall man. He was streamlined and had a long, saturnine face. Stubble shadowed his chin and cheeks, touched by gray. There were pitted, wrinkled scars where the hair slowly started to grow over. His nose was squashed and broken. His lips were pink and fat. His thin chest had even thinner hairs, though he had more hair on his bare arms and legs. There was a twisting white scar on the side of his chest and another that poked out of his underwear.

Something moved behind Henri and Sami's eyes flitted over to a woman who sat up from the bed, naked.

"Want me to sign or want to watch?" Henri said. It sounded like it came out of a collapsed lung.

Sami brought up the pad, nearly hitting Henri's exposed arm.

Henri took it and stared at it. It had gone on for so long that Sami wondered if he could even read. Sami was aware of the woman on the bed watching him. He was aware of where he was. _Say something, _he told himself, _Go on, tell him. Tell him what you think, tell him about his sister, tell him—_

"I'm used to Tank doing this route," Henri said, his finger tracing the edge of the pad.

"Uhm, yeah," Sami said, trying to meet Henri's eyes and looking away. "He retired last week. He lost his hand in an accident a week before."

"I see," Henri said, picking up the pen attached to the pad and writing in his signature.

"I'm sorry if I disturbed—"

"You did. Twice."

"Yeah." Sami's smile stiffened. "I'm really sorry, I'm just doing my job."

Henri grunted in reply and with a curt nod handed back the pad to Sami. Sami glanced at it, inwardly frowning at the oversize letters that spelled Henri's name. Sami handed over the package. He was surprised at how gracefully Henri's big hands handled it. They were so large they devoured the package, wrapping around its midsection—

_—or neck_, he thought, seeing those same hands throttling the life of Maia from Mjollnir. He tried not to stare as Henri wrung the package, his thumbs pressing down into the tape. _How did it feel like? What do you call her? The Girl from Mjollnir or even That Girl from Old Five?_

"It's pretty heavy," Sami blurted out when Henri started to back away. The words he wanted to say were piling on him.

"It's medicine," Henri said, his gravelly voice soft, his eyes fixed on the package.

"Oh, must be a lot of Dexon, then," Sami said. "I take them too, for my back and such, you know, since this job's kinda taxing, but I think maybe you knew that."

Henri was silent for a while and then slowly nodded.

"Something like that," Henri replied.

"_Hank." _The woman stood up. "I'm on the clock, you know."

"I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't take your time, but..."

_But what? I used to watch your reruns with my family? Gleefully played it out with my friends when I was eight? Used to love pretending I was you as I hacked at a friend who was supposed to play Ransolo? And how every time I look back on it I feel sick? That I feel sick standing here, wondering what I'm doing, wondering what I'm trying to..._

"I'm a friend of your sister's."

Henri froze as if turned to stone. Sami wondered sickeningly if Henri had noticed the forced pause when he said _friend_, as opposed to _she is my lover_. His eyes twitched though Sami wondered if that were his own eyes moving until Henri's brown eyes flitted over to him. They blinked slowly, incomprehensibly.

"How…" Henri trailed off, his voice pausing as if he was trying to remember the words. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Sami answered slowly and without thinking he added, "I'll be eighteen in two months."

"Oh." Henri eventually said, smiling a little as if Sami had said something cute. "Good job."

Sami didn't have time to answer before the door was shut in his face.


	3. Cally

**CALLY**

She slammed the door.

_Well, there goes that, _she thought, walking down the hallway of her home. Another day ruined.

Cally had planned the whole deal in perfect detail. Get up, get ready, inhale a hurried meal of watery oatmeal, and deliver the package. That left her with enough time to meet Bishop at the location well-dressed. It was all carefully planned and measured into the slightest detail. And all ruined by one lone asshole behind the wheels of a bus.

Now she had barely thirty minutes. Her mom would know about the missed delivery of produce to Mister Hartshorn, and let Cally know what she thought of her sloppiness. She scowled and walked quickly as if the floor underneath her was hot. There was something she was forgetting. It scratched at the back of her head reaching beyond the guilt and the uncharacteristic stress chewing her mind. She couldn't fully grasp it. It dangled in front, a carrot on a stick, and _what the hell was that noise?_

Her eyes moved towards the source of the sounds, finding the door at the end of the hallway.

Ah. Now she remembered.

Withholding another mental _Fuck_, she quickly increased her pace towards her brother's room.

"…my main thought of the day to you is to endure." Reggie Sherman's voice was clear through Alec's door. "We are nothing but survivors and whenever these naysayers sprout their treasonous propaganda they're insul…"

She opened the door and the room went quiet with a click. Alec, using his bed for a chair and his stool for a desk, pretended to look down at his book and papers. Cally regarded him silently, looking back at him and at the Cantrix in front of him. It was small, thin, faded red with scratches, and the most expensive thing Alec had. It held up to days' worth of songs and showed the time. Knowing Alec, most of his collection consisted of pipe and skit music.

_And Sherman's stupid speeches_, Cally thought with a mental sneer. Just last week the bastard read aloud fanletters. "Mister Sherman," he had said in that slow, dragging drawl of his, "is it true that the Cappies squeal like pigs and trill like birds?" Cally had never found out the answer because it was better to assume than hear it and have it echo in her mind long after she should've ignored it.

"Why are you listening to that crap?" she asked.

"I wasn't," said Alec.

"I heard you just now! Do you think I'm stupid?"

"I was checking the stations," he said in a dull voice.

"Yeah? Well how come you aren't studying?"

He bit his lower lip and scooped it in his mouth.

"Well?"

"I'm useless," Alec muttered. "I'm stupid. I'll never get it. It's too hard."

Oh, it was one of those things again.

"What's too hard?" She closed the door behind her. Alec blinked and she realized that closing doors after announcements like that was something their parents would do if they wanted to have a serious talk. It was an adult move.

"This."

_No shit, _Cally wanted to say but halted herself as she stole a glance at his Cantrix, noting the time displayed in the corner. She really didn't have time to argue with him if she wanted to make it in time.

_Gotta pay your due, _she reminded herself. All her fault, after all.

"What is it that you're struggling with?" she asked, in an attempt to use their mom's voice.

Alec indicated the book and papers with a wide gesture, his jaw jutting. "All of it. I'm dumb, Tanner says so. Even on things I think I know, I'm dumb there too."

There wasn't a place to sit down. His bed was flat and flimsy, only meant to support his small weight. She could sit on the floor, but she didn't like the idea of her ten-year-old brother looking down at her, as if she were the one being lectured to. She moved a little closer, putting a hand on the stool.

"Well, what do you think you know?" Even as she said it, she winced. _Great way to connect with your little brother_, she thought.

"The showers." Alec's long hair drooped over his face as he hung his head lower, almost muttering. "Miss Morris was talking about Capitol luxuries from the book and almost everybody started saying that the Capitolites had all that fancy stuff. I said, 'that's not true'. Right Cally?"

She didn't have time to answer before he continued, "That's what mom and dad always say when they tell us stories about when they were kids and when our grandparents were still alive. Dad never had that—that shower. That shower that has like, a hundred thousand programs and stuff on how to do your hair. Mom said she would've given all of her money to have one of those when she was a kid. But they weren't allowed to have them. Only the tributes got all the super nice things because it was so expensive to run that stuff in everybody's house! Not even the rich Capitolites had them, and they could afford to send their kids to collectives, or whatever they were called, at like age three!"

Alec's voice soared high and Cally's stomach dropped sickeningly. She put her hand on his shoulder, felt him tense, and withdrew the hand to herself quickly.

"Yeah, you're right," she said, glancing over at the time again. She watched him thumb listlessly through the book. She recognized its characteristic black, gold, and white cover without having to read the title, a familiar scripture she had to read in class along with further reading: _The History of Panem, No Mutt is Good, The Eternal Jewel. _None of them were subtle or written with the intent that she would be able to read them. Cappies like her, according to some, were too stupid to get the references even when blatantly obvious, or they wouldn't hang around for much longer.

"Miss Morris didn't do anything. She just let them yell at me until Anna called me names and then Miss Morris told her to apologize. She didn't mean it. And Miss Morris didn't talk to me or anything. She just ignored me and kept reading from the book. She got to the end of the Second Rebellion and when she…" Alec faltered and licked his lips, his eyes watering. "She talked…about…"

If Alec was going to cry, she would let him, maybe giving him an awkward hug. It was tense silence for a moment, Alec fumbling at his books and papers, touching the Cantrix, not looking up.

It was the aftermath of the Second Rebellion that got him choked up, as it had been for her, but unlike him, she had kept quiet about it. Neither of her parents liked to talk about it, about how President Paylor, along with the Mockingjay's permission, hosted one final Hunger Games using the children of the Capitol, seventy-five for the total number of years the Games ran. The winner was Octavius Kemper, who killed himself the following year.

It made Cally angry, that the revolution had supposedly been about the Games, yet the Mockingjay had allowed the Hunger Games to continue, with an ex-Peacekeeper in their own ranks, unpunished and untried. She had exploded in class the same way Alec had done, though for different reasons. She couldn't have continued sitting there, listening to her teachers twist her people, saying that President Klein's few good acts had not only been at pointing the fingers at the career districts, but to keep the Capitolites under heavy watch and control. How the presidents after him had enforced this rule, years upon years upon years, mocking them, taking their homes from them, putting them all in camps after they rebelled again. There had been no apology afterwards, no regrets when the Capitolites had been scattered in all the districts, the Capitol city left in ruins. To hear her history teacher mention that mercy was too good for them, hidden under a mask of a smile, had been the pot that boiled.

"I yelled at my teacher," Cally told Alec. She smiled when Alec looked up, eyes wet but wide open in shock. "I was like 'how could you call the Capitolites evil when you're doing the same thing?' you know?"

"And what did your teacher say?"

"He said—" She looked at the time and then at Alec's books. "Oh you have it here, the book my teacher was using. Here, let me show you." She grabbed a book and started flipping pages. "He said something like how it brings us together and it's not a punishment, so the Games are okay, as opposed to the Hunger Games, which is like the same thing in my book." She shoved the book away. "Nevermind, I can't find it."

"Oh." Alec glanced down at his hands. "Okay."

"Don't worry about them. We're going to move out and you won't have to put up with that anymore."

"Yeah, I will. Mom has to fill out papers saying she's a Cappy so when we're put in school, everybody will know. I don't wanna go to school anymore. I wanna tell Mom I'd rather work with her in her new job."

"She won't let you." Cally looked down at what else he was working on. "Is this your homework?"

"Yeah."

"Come on, I'll help you out."

Alec's green eyes were hooded. Cally sighed.

"Look, I'm being serious. I'll help you. Now what's this?" She lifted a sheet, and her lips moved as she read the instructions, her eyes glancing over at the blank map of Panem. "Oh, this one's easy. You just fill in the district locations with numbers and names."

Alec's face fell. "See! I _am_ stupid. I'm supposed to know this but I don't!"

Cally gritted her teeth in equal frustration at herself and at her brother. She could delve into a momentary cruelty and snap at him over how simple his assignment was, but remembered that Alec had very little motivation to remember basic things like this.

Mom had once scolded him when he had been unable to tell his left from his right, and he was pretty clumsy, usually tripping over his own feet. Cally and their sister Mira would laugh at how stupid he looked walking on the sides of his feet even when Mom caught him doing it and yelled at him to walk right. His letters were horrible too. His r's looked like v's and his x's looked like t's, and no matter how hard Cally or Mira or Dad had instructed him on how to hold his pencil, he still clutched it awkwardly, causing him to complain of hand cramps which only resulted in Mom or Dad rolling their eyes while applying an ice pack to his hand.

Cally had assumed that maybe his increased mood swings were because of Dad's death. Mom had been unable to sleep in the room they had shared and had for a time slept in Alec's room. Alec had been lucky to have a room of his own, even if it was just a big closet. Cally could sometimes hear them crying softly in the night, Mom occasionally using their full names in her sleep while Mira remained rigid in her own bed across from Cally. She had no idea how to approach Alec about Dad or Mom or anything like that. Maybe it was unfair to blame Dad for the mess, like he had wanted to be dead, but Alec had problems before Dad died and him getting worse could be because he really wasn't caring anymore.

"Let's just go over it together." She patted the map with an index finger, glancing at the time again. "Looks like you got where we live easily enough. Aztlán. Good, good." _You even managed to make the zero in ten look like a number._ She held her tongue.

"That's the only one I know." He wasn't even looking at the paper.

Cally considered it for a long moment, hoping the words wouldn't sound like they were being pulled. "You wanna know something?"

"What?"

"A lot of people get the map wrong the first time."

Alec blinked.

Cally tried a smile. "I'm serious. The kids in my class, when we had to fill in the map for the first time, agreed it looked nothing like how they imagined it. My teacher said it was fun to see our reactions, though of course there were kids who had already seen the real map and had no problems, but they don't count.

"This was this kid—can't remember his name anymore, but it doesn't matter—who thought that the real map was more circular. It's 'cause the book said it was 'ringed by districts' or something so he took that rather literally. And his parents told him about this insane belief that it was easier to control an area if there were no gaps in between the districts. He also said that the sizes looked really weird, that certain districts were too big.

"So our teacher had to kinda introduce some of us to the map for the first time, since not all of our parents had done so and 'cause most of them still hadn't moved out or explored other places even when they could. I'll give you this freebee. The Capitol used to be here. It's easier to remember because it's the smallest one." She was happy to see that Alec looked thoughtful as he labeled the map. "It also looks a bit like the letter C."

Alec turned his head at an awkward angle until he realized he could turn the paper instead. "Yeah. It kinda does."

"Nowadays it's just called the Brink to make fun of it. The edge of the great big hole." _The ruins are sadder, _she wanted to say. "And the Eyrie?"

He pointed to the biggest one in the righthand corner.

"Uh, try one step down."

"This one? But it's small."

"It's the smallest district and still is." _Though that might change_, she thought, remembering rumors that the Eyrie might stretch its borders. After all the Lady Mockingjay had always had a sweet spot for trees and Labrys had a lot of open forests on the surface.

"So," she said. "Care to tell me what the Eyrie used to be called?"

"District Twelve. It did coal." His brow furrowed as if he were looking directly into the sun. "It's weird."

"Weird how?"

"That it mined coal. Was it for the trains?"

"'course not. Trains haven't run on coal in a long time."

"Then what's it for?"

"Dunno. One of the Old Capitol's social experiments, maybe."

"Social what?"

"Nothing, nothing." This amused her, which was funny on a day like today. If she had the courage that Alec had to speak up in class about inaccuracies, the district management would've been a hot topic at her school.

"So why was it called the Eyrie?" Alec asked.

"The Mockingjay lives there."

"Is that it?"

"A lot of places are named after people or things. Come on, you don't know?"

Alec glowered. "I guess not."

"Alright, alright. So…this big district next to it has to be…"

"Labrys. Thirteen."

"Good job."

Alec smiled, but his eyes were clouded and he quickly moved back to the map again. He pointed at Labrys. "So Thirteen, Twelve…" His finger hesitated between the three empty spots clustering between the Eyrie and Aztlán. "E-lev-en?" he said finally, pointing at the strip of land at the bottom. "Arcadia?"

"That's good!" She clapped him on the shoulders and Alec beamed, his lips peeled back in a wide, toothy smile.

"Yeah!" He was flushed. "He pointed at another blank space. "Nine. Windsor?"

"That's not where it is. That's where the numbering system gets kinda wonky. Try the first numbers."

"Four?"

Cally sighed. "Seriously, Alec? How can Four be there if it's supposed to border water? _Pacifica_, Alec." She faltered, realizing that maybe he didn't know the significance of that moniker.

"Uhm…Two?"

"Yeah, that's Two." She paused, waiting.

"The Bucket."

"Yep."

"Why do they call it that? I thought the Bucket was the name of the prison."

"That's what it's most famous for," she mumbled more to herself than to him as she looked at big black spot on the map, reminding her of the current predicament. "So you see a pattern with the names right? Arcadia's still pretty obvious and Labrys because it's underground, and Aztlán is like Lincoln, in that the districts picked names that signify liberation or pride, something like that. And no, that's not Old Three." She took Alec's pencil and erased the sloppy _3_. "You'd think it's there, but that's Pacifica. It's actually here."

Alec's eyes bugged out. "There? But I thought that was like…I dunno, Six or something."

"No, Lincoln is there, but yeah, that's Hephaestus. It's right next to the Eyrie."

"Why are all the numbers out of order?"

"It has to do with a lot of factors, mainly location, geography, administration, stuff like that." She was trying to paraphrase what she had been taught in school and hoped her bastardization of the account wasn't too confusing. "Now you can do the rest yourself. I did Hephaestus for you—and Pacifica. So now you need to fill in the rest. Glitter Gulch is—"

"One."

"And it's where?"

He scribbled. She peered down and nodded. "Good. Now let's see…Mjollnir."

"Uhm…Eight, no Five. Five. And it's…here?"

"No, that's the Sprawl, which is…?"

"I dunno—"

"Hint, hint, you just said it."

"Five—Eight! It's Eight!"

"Yeah, so where's Mjollnir? There's like one obvious place it could be because—"

"It's here! And the Fringe is here! There, I'm done!" He slapped his pencil on the stool.

"Good job. See, you're not entirely stupid."

"Shut up, Caelia!" Saying her name formally was like calling Mom _Mother_. It had once been awkward, but now walked a tightrope between a curse and mockery.

"See? Now you're sounding like yourself again." Her smile stiffened as she glanced over at the time and quickly made her way towards her room. She heard Alec make a start and run after her.

"Where are you going?" he cried out.

"Nowhere." She snagged the rose that was sitting in one of her drawers and buttoned it on the side of her breast pocket, her gut turning as if the floor beneath her started shifting.

"But it's the middle of the day!"

"Yeah?"

"You only say that when you head out at night." When she turned around, he raised an eyebrow. "What's with the flower?"

She pushed him aside. "This time's different, but same rules apply. So you'll tell Mom, what…?"

He looked to be in the process of answering, before he changed his mind.

"Promise you'll go over this with me when you get back?"

"Alec, I practically—oh whatever, fine."

"Then have fun at Aunt Julia's," he said with a small wave.

* * *

Bishop was going to kill her.

She tried to focus her attention on what was going on around her as if other people's misery or mishaps would dilute her own. The buildings sprawled in a hogwash of muted, faded colors, bleached by the sun. It was a city that, to her, resembled dead skin, something snakes and bugs would strip off, and what the people of Rope's End would seize and recycle. Pieces of architecture contradicted one another, bristling with broken glass bottles, steel, concrete, wood, and rope. Homes showed tiny glimpses of individuality, like flowers planted outside or gates or markers. Some, she had been surprised to find, had engraved their family name rather openly on the front.

Almost all of the people on this street, and one fourth of those living in Rope's End (or Lower Aztlán if you wanted to talk about class) were ex-Capitolites—_Cappies_ if she could make herself say that word. She saw Mister Highweather cleaning a window with a wad of discarded papers while his daughter wiped away graffiti from the walls that looked like a child's rendering of what a cockroach looked like. Then a shadow passed over Cally and she looked up.

Clothes flapped weakly in the air or in children's hands as they snagged hard-wire clotheslines or bricks and traversed from building to building like monkeys. She winced as she crossed underneath them, hoping their mishap wouldn't result in her breaking bones.

She saw that a section of a curving street was sectioned off with signs, making way for a woman who was one of the lucky few who knew how to drive a vehicle. Everyone else walked around her and parted further when the vehicle stopped and she and a few workers started pulling out the materials from the back. Cally walked a little faster, taking in the full extent of the supposed reconstruction project. Rope's End hadn't seen much of it, but usually happened whenever some bored Ministry official or another decided to grace the goodwill of the nation upon the disenfranchised citizens of Lower Aztlán. That usually lasted just as long as expected, then again, why the Lady Protector would even waste money on Capitolites like herself always surprised Cally. After all, in the Lady's worldview, hadn't they once almost killed her?

"Miss?"

A scruffy man, fifty from the look of him, peered up at her from beneath a battered green hat and a thin cover that appeared to keep off most of the sun from his tattered body. She saw feet wrapped in makeshift leather and bark, dirty black toes puckering from a slit in the front. He extended a sunburnt hand towards her. She saw that his eyes were far-reaching and vacant.

" 'scuse me, young miss? I'm a, a veteran of the Insurgence…"

Cally continued on walking.

"Please." He tried to keep up with her. "A flashbang got my eyes and now I can't even get any work. Please, I just need a few—"

He had been extending a can towards her the moment she slapped his hand away, making him drop it. Cally increased her steps, hearing him scramble to pick up the can.

"Bitch!" he yelled behind her.

"Word of advice," she shouted back. "Calling a stranger 'Miss' isn't gonna make her believe you're blind."

She didn't hear what he answered, nor what the next one around the corner said. For a moment she felt a tiny tint of guilt but like a breath, it was easy to let out and relax. Part of her couldn't say she didn't pity some of them, but like many of the inhabitants of Rope's End she had long learned that while some generally didn't have anywhere to go, most of the beggars in the district were mainly low-rate con artists.

She increased her steps, making it into a small run as she made her across the next curve. The blocks became slightly better. She noticed one of the Praetorians making a business transaction with a local boy who simpered and winked as the Praetorian fondled his clothing. Cally quickly broke into a run.

When she finally got to the courthouse she was dripping with sweat. Her feet were scorching through her thin shoes. Moisture pooled under her armpits and knees. The sour, thick smell of her sweat seeped up from her collar. She was wearing a thin duster to protect herself from the wind and sun, but now she couldn't take it off or else risk showing large patches on her shirt. It was embarrassing even if people exposed their wet patches openly. This was a professional meeting. She would be expected to smell and look nice and make proper accommodations. The sprays she had applied earlier had already been diluted, which had been too bad as they had been worth a fortune. She tried not to snarl or pucker her lips out too far as she stepped onto the stone staircase. It loomed up in front of her, dwarfing her as she quickly ascended. She attempted to adjust the blue flower attached to her front as if it was a painting that was a little off on the wall, but it was no good pretending.

Cally was halfway up the stairs, which was a little more than enough to see the top. She took in the view and swore. There was nobody here.

_Fuck!_

Panic boiled up in her. She couldn't have been _that_ late, could she? But why was it empty? There should be at least a few people still arriving, or at least the doors still open. Had they closed them? Was she gonna be…?

She looked behind her. If she was late, what was the point? Maybe she should just head back, get into some better clothes and not have to lie to her mom this time. If she went now, she would probably make it back in time before her mom returned from the shop.

_Gotta pay your due, _she thought and she made a thin moaning sound. It was her fault this had happened and it was only fair she should see Jax off. Otherwise his eyes would follow her beyond the trial and she wouldn't need the sun to help her sweat.

A man paced around the entrance, carrying a thin rod in his hand. She noticed the golden bird in flight on the crest of his uniform. He was young, she noted, barely past eighteen by the look of it. She had long learned to expect the same from most of them, regardless of age. Behind him she could see the door.

His eyes met hers and she made an attempt at smiling. By the way he looked at her, she guessed that it wasn't very convincing and with her fluffed up hair she must've looked like some mutt who'd just crawled out of a lab. She still smiled as her eyes rested on the rod. She remained hesitant for a second before taking an uncertain step towards the door.

The young man froze. She edged closer and he remained immobile. She let out a small sigh through her nose and passed the threshold. The cold air bit at her before she made it all the way through and she shuddered, her arms rippling with hair and gooseflesh.

"About time."

She turned, almost expecting a barrel in her face. Instead, she was met with a scowling expression, framed by black hair.

"Well, look at that," Elena Thrace said, her arms crossed. "Guess fine folk do show up late, don't they Princess?"

Cally drew back. "I was delayed."

"Uh-huh, don't I know it." Elena's eyes narrowed as she peered at her face. "Well, you stink bad enough for that to be true."

"Please don't talk about my smell." She pulled her arms closer to her body as if that would trap the odor, angry that it was making her look like a turtle.

Elena's eyebrows went up. "Anyways, Bishop wanted to keep on waiting, almost had to beat some sense into him for him to get inside in time to get a seat. I swear," she muttered, more to herself than to Cally, "that man worries too much for his own damn good."

"So he hasn't…?" Too late she remembered the Praetorian at the door. Talking about their work in here might not be the best.

"Nope," Elena said, noticing her hesitation. Too much commotion going around, didn't even get time to talk to him. Then again, wasn't really his business now, was it?"

Alec, the business on the way, all of it had caught in her throat at Elena's expression. She remained quiet.

"Well, come on then," Elena said, turning her back on Cally. "You made it this far, so you might as well see the show. They're just getting set up."

Cally had to almost hurry to keep ahead of Elena's long strides. The awkwardness hung in the air, making her ears ring. The sticky patches of sweat made her skin itch and she bit her tongue. Soon more patches of skin started itching and it had nothing to do with the weather.

"Thrace," Cally started, straightening her spine. She was trying to look for words to say, something to interject with, but once again Elena was faster.

"You got us into this mess. Just fix it, Weaver"

They stepped into the hall.

* * *

The courthouse of Lower Aztlán was massive for its location. Not ornamented or even grandiose, just big and, aside from the row of benches extended ahead of them towards the front, extremely sparse. In furniture, that is. The courthouse was well supplied with people. Eyes followed her as she made her way forward. _Did Jax make this many enemies or are they just here for the hanging? _Few decorations caught her eyes with exception of a flag suspended behind the gallery, a flaming bird in flight on a black field.

Elena led the way across the nearby crowded row, bumping a few knees on the way inwards. It didn't take long until she conducted Cally onwards to an empty space in the middle of the row. Sitting beside her was another familiar face, gaunt and arched by medium-length brown hair.

"You're late," Bishop whispered, staring ahead. "We almost got worried."

"I'm sorry I worried you two," Cally said, pretending she didn't hear the snort coming from Elena.

"I did say _almost,"_ Bishop said softly. "You missed out on the show before." He nodded towards the front of the crowd. She stared until she noticed the small woman and man. "That's his folks, you see," he said in clarification.

"Okay."

"Praetorians had to keep them separated until entering, going as far as clubbing them. They kept on screaming about their boy. Telling them that they would know if it was true and threatening everybody."

"And they're still there? They didn't lock them up, take them away?"

"They're witnesses so they've gotta be a bit presentable. After that, they'll be charged."

_Of course_, she thought to herself, bitterly. _All equal under the law after all. _

"Ten minutes," Bishop said, his hoarse voice slipping into an awkward cough, before he continued on talking. "Is all the time they're gonna give until they haul him off to the can. You're gonna have to speak with him then. Understood?"

The tone of his voice, although still soft sounded a bit harsh as his eyes met hers, making sure she understood. It wasn't so much a question as an order.

_Why do you think I showed up? _She nodded.

They fell silent when the judge appeared from the backroom. Someone, possibly a higher-ranking guard, blurted out the man's name: Marshal Solomon Ludlow. When he appeared, everyone found their feet.

Ludlow was a small, dark man, barely taller than Elena. He made his way up into the chair. His bald plate reflected the light from the windows. He was clean-shaven save for his long mustache, which dangled underneath his nose like two limp cat tails. His hard eyes remained fixed on a piece of paper he was carrying in his hand.

"Sit," he said.

Legs and asses shifted as people found their seats.

"Jackson Shepherd," Ludlow said as he read the file.

There was the sound of shifting chains and cloth and Cally saw Jax shuffle in between two female guards, pale and shaking. She hadn't seen him since the job and her stomach turned at how much he had changed since his captivity. He had shrunken in size and fading bruises mottled the back of his neck and bare arms. He never once looked out over the crowd, which Cally thought was a relief considering she couldn't bear to see his expression of anguish. All she saw was his back, curved and ridged, as he folded under Ludlow's authority.

Ludlow regarded him calmly, putting the slip away. "Now then, Mister Shepherd. I think both you the audience here is well aware of why you're here in front of me, but regulations require me to ask and so I shall." His grey eyes bore into him as he looked down from his table. "Do you know why you stand before us?"

He muttered.

"Speak up, boy."

"I said, yes, Milord, I do," Jax answered, sounding like a croaking frog. He kept looking at his feet.

"And that is?"

"Stealin', Milord," Jax replied. "They took me in, 'cause I was caught stealin'."

"Yes, stealing." Ludlow looked back to his paperwork. "You were charged with stealing medicine from the Primrose Hospital in Carrington, last Thursday, depriving the sick and wounded. Do you remember the incident in question?"

Jax seemed to hesitate, breathing heavily through his mouth. He nodded.

Cally was also silent. She could still hear the triggered alarms ringing in her ears, echoed with the growls and barking of dogs. She had scaled the fence, barbs cutting into her clothes and flesh. She was lucky that the barbs had sliced her arms and shoulders and not her gloved hands and face. Over her shoulder, she had spotted the guards circling in on Jax. He hadn't been looking at her, but if he had, would she have stopped?

_Just bare it out_, she reminded herself._ It will soon be over, just bare it out 'til then._

"I don't think I need to say how serious of an offence this is," Ludlow began. "Back in the old days, trials were reserved for the upper class. The rest would've been given whippings or dismemberment. Fortunately however, in these days, we're a lot more civilized." Ludlow banged his club to the mat. "Bring up the first witness."

Jax had no defense. Those who testified against him were workers and Praetorians. "I saw him sneaking round the grounds like a weasel," one of them said, and the others added to the story with variations. When they spoke, the room burst with small noises of agreement and nods, which only made Cally angry. None of them knew Jax at all, but then again, neither did she. Her stomach was turning. She should've helped him, could've climbed down to…_to join him right there on the stand. _That wouldn't have done either of them any good.

Elena and Bishop remained stoic, staring straight ahead, carefully avoiding one another's eyes.

When the time came for Jax to present his witnesses and defense, he only had his parents, who, despite recovering from a beating, stood tall and the man said, "My son is no thief."

Cally felt Elena slowly shake her head. Bishop wasn't even looking up at all.

"Well, that's a relief," Ludlow said dryly as he waved the woman away. "I've heard enough." He didn't even withdraw to have a moment to think. He folded his hands and peered down at Jax, who had mimicked Bishop's stance by staring transfixed at his own feet. "I find the accused man, Jackson Shepherd, to be guilty of stealing the People's medicine, a sentence which should equate to hanging."

There was silence across the hall. Cally gasped, staring. The guards started to move.

"However," Ludlow said and everyone froze in place, "On account of this being the accursed first criminal offence, I have decided to show restraint and instead allow for him to pay back to the community. Therefore by the power instated to me by the Nation of Panem, the Overseer Carlo Ortiz of Aztlán, and the Lady Mockingjay herself, I sentence Jackson Shepherd six years in the Bucket."

Cally gave a sigh of relief and even Elena managed a smile. Jax's parents didn't struggle. Things could've been worse. Cally could hear muttered disappointment that Jax wasn't sentenced to death.

Her eyes glanced over to Bishop, his eyes meeting hers. The glance he gave her made her almost wonder if there was an ounce of disappointment buried there.

_You know what you have to do, _they told her from the other end.

And so she did.

* * *

Cally was escorted by a pair of guards into a small room where Jax remained seated, chained and flanked. When he looked at her, his eyes focused on her chest and she felt the blue rose still pinned. His rough features were smoothed over by a slanted, warm smile.

"Hey, Weaver," he said, as she approached with his words luring over his broken lips.

"Jax," she replied back. They were silent for a few moments simply watching each other.

He was the first to break it. "You look like shit."

They both caught the absurdity of the situation and broke down laughing.

"You're one to talk. At least I'm the one wearing full clothes."

He smiled. "At least they gave me a scrub. You look like you haven't seen a soap-bar in years."

"Shut up!" she said, curling her arms tighter around herself. "I'll have you know I looked a lot better on my way up here. I'm sorry if it's not up to your standards."

"Don't be," Jax answered smiling. "Seeing squeaky-clean Caelia Weaver slumming it down with the rest of us? Best goodbye present, ever."

She smiled. A part of her wondered if he'd still said this if they would've gone along with hanging him.

"Our friend sends his regards," she said, her eyes glancing at the two guards on each side.

Jax nodded slowly, following her eyes. "You can send him my thanks and sorry that I didn't get to pay him back for the receipt."

The words weren't lost on her as she nodded. Whatever relief she was feeling however was mixed together with the part of her that wanted to slap him over his head. _You dumb log! You could've told and nobody would've blamed you. You wouldn't have been in here and you could have saved yourself the fucking trial, if you'd just sold us out!_

She knew she would've.

"I see you remembered it," he said nodding to the flower on her blouse, smiling broadly. "Didn't think you had kept it."

She hadn't. She wanted to tell him she had thrown away the flower as she usually did with every other little gift she'd been given throughout the years. If she could give it away to someone who needed it, that was even better, but she was usually overwhelmed by her own frustrations to think so far ahead of herself. She had been lucky to find a rose like the one Jax had given her in the market.

_It didn't cost me much, _she thought, trying hard not to bite her lip or look away. It was one thing to plan the scenario in her head, another to be directly confronted with it and realize that he really believed in his own fantasy. Jax got up, but winced as the guards shoved him back down.

"I can't even touch her?" he said. The guards said nothing.

"It's fine." She touched the blue rose and then made a gesture of hugging herself, pushing her cold sweat further into her skin. Her nose, supersensitive, caught a whiff of her own odor. She swallowed back a retch and tried to smile. "I'll wait for you."

"You will?"

_No. _Six years was a long time. She nodded, trying to make herself as hopeful as he was feeling, even as she was taken away. Lies were sometimes good things. Her parents had always insisted she tell the truth even though they told lies themselves, so it wasn't like she had to follow them. And she told good lies, lies that made people feel better. A lot of things could happen in six years. Jax might forget, might find someone in The Bucket. _Might even be dead._

_Time's a good healer, _she said to herself, trying to paint over her last thought. _If he's dead, it wouldn't hurt so much. It would be bearable._

What wasn't bearable was Bishop's expression when she caught up with him and Elena. "Weaver," he began, wringing his work-roughed fingers. "How did it go?"

She shook her head. "He didn't rat us out. We're in the clear." _And he's going to rot in the Bucket. Excellent trade, right Bishop?_

Bishop nodded slowly, his eyes looking over to Elena who looked a lot more relieved at the news.

"Good," he said. "That'll make this easier."

Cally raised her eyebrows. "What?" she asked.

"I have a new job for you," Bishop answered.


	4. Johnny

**JOHNNY**

"A new job?"

Billy Blake didn't move or speak, but sat back against the wall and regarded Johnny, who wondered if he had crossed an invisible line. Sweat was starting to pulse from him in waves. His arms were crossed to mimic that of Blake and he thought to let them swing freely at his side…only to realize that would leave his chest exposed. Blake's Boys, the rest of the Gentlemen, had scattered like birds. Johnny had never been so aware of himself.

"Yes," said Blake. His thin blond hair, streaked with white, was combed back. His lean face was hollow in the light. He didn't push off the wall, but continued to watch the young man. "You brought him here without problems. I think you're ready to do more than sit and watch."

"I also drive."

A smile—or maybe it was just a shadow that passed over Blake's face as he shifted—flashed. He inclined his head. "Halfsack taught you well."

"It wasn't so hard," said Johnny, relaxing at something familiar and safe to talk about. He tilted his head to the left, looking at his scuffled boots. "Everybody makes it seem so difficult." He knew the reason was because not so many people owned vehicles. The roads were usually so narrow that only bikes and people could move through, and the roads before the Passing of the old world had crumbled and been claimed by the elements. He'd been told that a lot of them had been restored and used by the Nomad Empires all the way until the time of Old Six. Trains hadn't been the only means of transporting cargo and though there were roads used during the Capitol era that were now accessible, there wasn't much traffic. He could imagine how it all must've looked before, when vehicles cut through the black roads like sleek ships, stopping at now-ruined fuel stations. Things had been different back then. Now it was all reduced to storybooks and oral tales. At seventeen, he had heard various versions of the same thing.

"Neither is this," said Blake, moving forward, his long arms falling at his sides. "You're no longer an extra. Stay in the shot and fall in with the others."

"…now?"

Blake gave him a look and enunciated his speech. "Yes. Now." He pointed at the door behind Johnny as if Johnny would have difficulty in finding it. He went outside and the Gentlemen looked up.

They were all arranged in a sloppy half-circle in a vast, cluttered room. They smelled damp and rank, of sweat and caked dirt and greasy hair. Johnny resisted the urge to inspect himself, knowing he would smell just as bad without a shower in days, sleeping in his own clothes. If there were those who smelled better, they were overwhelmed by the others.

There were wires running away from the stage to the equipment in the back. Cameras jutted out like markers and pointed to the center of the room where a man was hunched down on his knees, a sack over his head. From here, it looked as if the man was having a stomach cramp. Everyone stared as if the man's gut ache was the most mesmerizing thing in the world. It was quiet, though they weren't still. Johnny saw Leary rubbing his lips and tossing his weight from one foot to the other, his feathery, tufted hair making him look like an excited parrot. Halfsack and Poul were looking at him and then at the man, and back again.

Johnny moved. He stood so that he was near the man on the floor. _This is it_, he thought. The Gentlemen were straining beyond the boundaries of their name. They were no longer going to attack convoys, couriers, and raid their warehouses. They were no longer just a footnote district, where their only moment of fame was in the Mockingjay's memoirs, represented by the nameless victors known as morphlings. Johnny bared his teeth in a silent snarl. Everyone thought the folks in Lincoln were heavy users of morphine, but that couldn't be further from the truth. _Just because those two victors were users don't mean we all are_, he thought. Lincoln was a good name, an honorable name. Named after a powerful man, a liberator, a visionary. It was something Johnny wanted to keep close.

That was what Blake's Boys were doing, representing, hungry for honor. They had a fine stack of chips and now it was time to play with the big boys. Johnny knew he didn't belong here. Outranked, outmatched…but better than being in the sidelines. Better than being called a _boy_, a word that always carried a sneer, no matter how it was said. His mom would roll her eyes and mutter under her breath at his machismo, which only made Johnny a little bitter because she had married Dad once and knew what she was getting into. Johnny put his anger on her because she was absent and therefore unable to protest. His head felt empty and his face tingled as if he had been slapped. He met Leary's eyes.

Leary's lips twitched. "This is real," he said. His voice was very loud in the silent room.

As if it was a signal or perhaps it was a response to a slow build-up in his gut, Johnny seized the loose fringe of cloth on the man's head and yanked it off.

The man scowled at the light, baring jagged stumps of teeth and pulped lips below a broken nose. His blue eyes were ringed with white. He had been trying to darken his hair, but gray still shone through in streaks behind his ears and the top of his head. Wrinkles cut through his skin, around his eyes and mouth. He looked his fifty years, but when he opened his mouth, he sounded younger.

"A mistake!" He broke off as he sucked in a wet, desperate breath. His hands were bound in front of him and he held them up as if giving an offering. "A mistake! A big mistake! You know who I am? You know?" The man swung his head around to address them all and stopped on Johnny.

Johnny's heart lurched. A shadow passed over the man and he flinched, a cry bubbling from his throat, eyes squeezed shut. _A dog, _Johnny thought, _Acts like a whipped dog. That's all it is really. A mangy, beaten dog pretending that it has some balls. _He relaxed a little. He even smiled when he met Leary's eyes.

"What, a loudmouthed blowhard who can't take a hint?" Halfsack said dryly. "Why isn't he doped again?"

Nobody answered. A few pressed a little closer, hunched a little, as if they were stalking the man.

"No!" The man snapped, pink spittle dribbling down his chin. "I won't!" Greasy tears slid down his cheeks. "You're all fucked! All of you!" When nobody moved to stop him, he went on, emboldened by their silence. "I have connections! The Oculi, I keep saying, I keep—they won't shoot you, oh no, they'll have you all gathered up and burned! All of you'll be ashes and scattered to the damn wind!"

He panted when he was finished and gave them all a curled lip, as if the words had become a ward against their violence. A rattling cough doubled the man over, and he retched, and a string of bloody phlegm clung to his lip. He turned a little to Johnny, showing him the wet gash of his mouth and what remained of his teeth. The man's eyes slowly closed, narrowed and glistening like the side of a coin. It made Johnny angry. The man made his speeches and withdrew with nothing to show for it but a dribble. Did it stop the Gents from messing up his face? The man's face was ghastly. His teeth looked as if someone had decided to smash them in, as if they feared his bite.

"Well done!"

The Gentlemen, Johnny included, turned around. Billy Blake started clapping, approaching the man slowly. "We-he-ll done! Must admit, that whole deal there with the speech was a good start." He brought a finger to his lips. "Beautiful and that's saying something. I'm not a guy who's easily impressed."

Billy Blake stepped into the light. He had taken the time to tie his hair back. His beard was still a bit wild, but it went well with his eyes. They flickered like a dying lightbulb.

One of the men behind a camera peered through. Billy held up a hand and inclined his head in the direction of the bound man.

"Pardon the wait," he said, waving a bundle of papers with his other hand. "Had to do some reading."

Johnny looked down at the man. He stiffened. There was no mistaking the slow realization in his eyes. Billy gave a lazy wave and those in the path of the camera started to put on their disguises. It was a motley array of bandannas, balaclavas, and masks. Johnny's was a simple black balaclava. He slid it on and peered out of the itchy holes, feeling removed from everything around him. He could almost feel Johnny, the part that made him, slowly shrivel behind the mask.

Billy was staring at him. Johnny hesitated for a moment, then grabbed the captive's head, just as Billy had instructed him when he'd outlined his new job. The man struggled weakly, but Johnny had a hold of his brown hair and twisted. Poul, hidden behind his bandanna, brought up one of the side cameras.

"I mean," Billy said. "I gotta be honest, I ain't much of a speaker and especially nothing compared to the _great_ Reggie Sherman!" He made a wide sweep with his arm. "Doing every show live, every other day? Most of us folk would probably feel a bit intimidated without some preparation. Less of all…" His voice grew hard. " 'A rabid marauder' such as myself. Can we file this under my 'childish bellyaching', Mister Sherman?"

Sherman remained quiet. Johnny loosened his grip on the man's hair, but the man remained as still as stone.

"You called me out," said Billy, staring at Sherman, unblinking, "and here I am." Billy brought up the papers and flung them in Sherman's face. They tumbled to the ground.

"Yes," Sherman said, squeezing the words from between his broken teeth. "You—"

A vicious backhanded blow sent Sherman sprawling. Johnny's eyes surely widened at that. He was thankful that he wasn't the only one who made a small noise of shock. He hauled Sherman back to a kneeling position. The man's head lolled. There was a dazed, fearful look in his eyes.

"Remember how you talked about me in your shows? Since you haven't allowed me to defend myself…" He made a gesture at Johnny.

Johnny pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and tied it around Sherman's mouth. He made a thin moan and shook his head, but didn't try to get up or thrash violently.

"Look." Billy pointed at one of the cameras. "Look at the camera, Tencel."

Sherman met the unveiling of his real name with objection, muffled behind the rag.

Billy smiled, but it looked stitched. Billy looked away, licking his lips, pacing around them as if he were collecting his thoughts.

_"Tencel,"_ a Gentlemen sniggered in the far back.

Well, that didn't seem fair. Sherman was in his fifties, born before the Second Rebellion, which meant that his name most likely reflected his station. _Keep it in the family_, he thought, _with good and honest toil._

"You were born in the Sprawl, right? So you know about threads. It doesn't matter the color or type, but it always leads to the same tangle, doesn't it? So what do we do?" He struck Sherman across the head. "We unravel it." He struck him again, hard enough for Sherman to slump. Johnny dug his hands deep into Sherman's shoulders to keep him steady and to keep his own hands from shaking.

"Hey! Pay attention, would you?" Billy grabbed Sherman's chin and forced it up. "Do you want me to hit you again?"

There was a grunt from beneath the gag and stifled sobs.

"You're useless, you know that?"

Sherman didn't move. Johnny could feel him tensing up for another blow.

"You really are a mouthpiece. Just a parrot, reciting all the wonderful little lies the Old Bitch has you say. If I have you bend over for me to shove a hand up your ass, will you dance and nod?"

Sherman nodded. It felt desperate. Johnny could almost see the broken lips forming the word 'please'. Johnny had heard his show, heard the passion in Sherman's voice, laughed along with Halfsack's impersonation. And now…

"Look at what you've reduced him to," said Billy, turning towards the camera.

Johnny could almost see the dozens of eyes staring back—would eventually stare back when they sent the tape. He resisted the urge to turn around to see if something else was in the room with them. As if there were amber bird eyes in the dark, waiting to sing their words into the Old Bird's ears.

_That's silly_, he thought. They were alone in the warehouse and the Mockingjay was as important as the slumped form of Sherman, jerking underneath his sweaty hands as if he were crying.

"You don't take any of us seriously, do you?" Billy muttered to the camera. "You take us for granted. You ask the honest folk of Lincoln, Aztlán, Pacifica, and their like, to give up their property as tribute. That same property that rightfully belongs to us, that we take back, your little birds just shrug and laugh. When we smash in the heads of Praetorians and their leaders, you assign new ones and call it a minor complaint." Billy paused, letting it sink in. "You don't care, do you?"

Sherman stiffened and began to shake a little. Johnny squeezed his shoulders tightly. _Come on, _he thought. _Just shoot him. _The heat was nearly making him swoon and his mask scraped his skin raw.

"I suppose we have to show you how passionate we are about our property and what we really think of you."

One of the men in the corner got up. It looked like it could be Cooper though it was hard to tell with the mask over his face. He saw something gleaming near the man's leg and he relaxed. A gun. It was odd that Billy didn't have one on him. It would've made him seem a lot more threatening to wave it around and push it in Sherman's face for good measure.

But it wasn't a gun. It was a blue plastic container. Johnny could hear the liquid sloshing inside. He could almost smell the lighter fluid.

Sherman must've smelled it also because he started to convulse. Johnny let him kick, trying to slink away into the background as the men came forward. Sherman wasn't stopping. His convulsions intensified. He arched his back, slammed his head down on the hard concrete, and jackknifed.

Billy's face, angry and a little pale, quickly turn pink. "Dump it on him!"

Cooper hesitated for a moment and winced as Halfsack took the container from him and emptied it on Sherman's body. Sherman's eyes were rolling in the back of his head and his exposed skin was turning blue. He was suffocating. His nose was smashed and all he had to breathe out of was the cloth Johnny tied around his mouth. Johnny resisted the urge to shut his eyes, to moan as the flames flared up. If he looked up a little to the flames licking at the ceiling, it didn't seem too bad. Then the smoke came and the smell and that was when Johnny ran out of the room, ripping the balaclava off his face. He was gasping and sobbing, breathing in the fresh air of the outside. He collapsed onto his knees and brought fists up against his forehead.

He didn't know how long he knelt there, breathing heavily. His thoughts, not wanting to think of what he'd seen, handed him an image of his mom cooking a roast. "Because your father can't cook meat," she would add with a slanted smile, and Johnny was only too happy to help.

Johnny groaned. He wanted to puke.

_Pull it together, _he thought. _This isn't new. You saw this before, remember? You knew what they were gonna do when you signed up. He's done it before._ He thought of the shotgun barrel, the splatter of brains and meat, the sticky pieces glueing themselves to his forehead. Johnny wasn't new to this. He wasn't this green.

Someone put an arm around his back. "You okay?"

Johnny looked up. It was Leary. His hair was still fluffed, his green eyes looking down at him with…what was it, concern? Now how about that?

"Yeah," Johnny croaked, shrugging Leary's arm away as he found his feet. "Just felt…crowded." He saw more of the Gentlemen standing guard, watching him with vacant expressions. He licked his lips and then his teeth. "On the scale of one to pussy, how bad did I do?"

Leary chuckled nervously. "I'd say about a seven."

Johnny laughed, a hoarse and hollow sound. That would be great, if he had the hysterics. They might think he was mad and shoot him then and there. He sobered quickly, rubbing at his cheek.

"You kiss-ass," he muttered at Leary. He pushed his hand away. "I'm fine. Let's go back inside."

"I don't think we should. I mean, we're about to head out soon. Billy said we need to be in the Gulch by morning."

_Damage control, _Johnny thought as they walked, Leary hanging back reluctantly. He rubbed his turning gut, hoping he wouldn't gag. He hoped to have time to send his mom a message, but then again he wouldn't be surprised if she already knew about it.

Inside, the smell turned his stomach, but he managed to hold the bile down. Stares pinned him back, but Johnny kept walking. He knew he was going to hear it all later. His eyes drifted away to the charred body. It looked like it was baked in black clay. Johnny's eyes darted away to Billy, who was standing further back. He was engaged in an argument with Poul.

"All I'm sayin' is we have little time to worry about the presentation," said Poul.

"Look, the tape needs to be right by the stiff. They _expect_ it to be like that. Tell 'em to put it in the hand or something, I don't know," said Billy, sliding a cigarette between his lips. Johnny noticed the small twitch in his hand as he lit up, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Poul grunted. "Want me to tell 'em to wrap it all up in a little bow as well?"

"If it'd make them happy," said Billy, taking a long drag as Johnny and Leary approached.

"Bill," Johnny began.

"You kept your hood on 'till you were outside?" Billy asked, glancing away.

"Yeah," said Johnny, relieved that Billy thought he could handle it.

"Good, Son," said Billy as he walked away. "Then you can help the others clean up."


	5. Sami II

**SAMI**

As the wind speared through his thin work uniform, nearly knocking his cap off his head, Sami realized that he should've brought a jacket. Eventually he gave up squeezing the hat further down his scalp to provide what warmth he could seize, and shoved it deep into one of his pockets. It bulged from his hip like a tumor. He walked slightly bent and he bore the pain in his back with silent resentment, hobbling along like a cripple, grimy and sweaty as if returning from a forge. The booze would soon make him forget.

Sami had too much to think about, not just the spasms in his spine but his job in general. Ma wanted him to find a better job. "It hurts me to see you like this," she told him this morning, over a meal of beans and bread, "and if you want to still look good when you're in your twenties, I think you should stop now."

"I can't. Not now. I won't get paid the full bonus until I finished the whole year."

"Yeah, you've told me. And I still think you should find something else."

"Do you have something else for me?"

"Have you been looking for another job?" she asked instead. She was no longer eating her breakfast, her arms crossed against her chest.

"I will, I will. I'm not like Frank."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you always deflect to him? You think I won't notice?" There was a smile in her voice even though her lips were slack.

"He's the one you should have this talk with, not me."

"I've already talked to Frank. I told him if I find any more drugs in his room, I'm booting him out the door, and I've told your father not to bring him back. And I'm warning you not to do him any special favors." She glared at him, inclining her head.

"I won't," Sami said, even though he wasn't sure how rigid that promise would be. Frank might be his half-brother, but he was still family. He didn't like to think of him begging for money in the streets. The only good thing out of all of this was that now his mind had something more urgent to think about: Reggie Sherman. The man's death was there, like a hair caught in his eye.

When he entered Waterfront's loud and stuffed bar, he saw no immediate sign of his friends and coworkers. There were plenty of people though, most of them around his age and a little older: students having a good time. They gathered around the worn tables in a haze of body sweat and alcohol. The barfront was in the shape of a ship, with decorations strewn around the walls like trophies. It was a legacy of Tobar's home district and the closest most of the customers got to the ocean. A group near the front was using the maw of an extinct shark as a coat hanger.

His appraisal of the latter was far from the same awe that had hit him the very first time he'd entered the place, shocked at the fact that an animal of this size existed anywhere outside of his Ma's stories about mutts. He remembered asking his old childhood friend Calder about it, who'd then pointed to the front of the bar.

"Tobar says he speared the thing before he moved here," Calder said, gesturing over to the man at the front talking to some of the regulars. "Says it's some rite of passage for his tribe or something like that. Personally, I think it's a whole lot of shit. He probably just found the thing in a store."

After a bit of scouting, Sami eventually found his friends. Most of them were still in their Veston uniforms. There was a sloppy circle of empty glasses in the middle when Calder dragged a seat from another table and shoved it near the corner for Sami to join them.

Calder whistled, a high-pitched trill that brought a waiter over to their table immediately. "Git my boy a drink," he said, lofting his glass in Sami's face. He was grinning, his face flushed, the collar of his shirt gaping open. His dark skin gleamed with sweat.

"Hi," said Sami. It sounded weak and thin. He cleared his throat and ordered King Midas, a high-flown name for a mediocre beer, though he couldn't say it didn't deliver turning his piss into gold. He watched as the waiter tapped it in his pad, took Sami's payment, left, and returned quickly with his drink.

"Rough patch?" Calder asked Sami. He was wiry, had a thick chin, large brown eyes, and a prominent belly that he patted whenever he was pleased with something. His wide gestures meant that he was already well into being drunk.

"You think?" said Sami.

"Just a shot in the dark," said Calder. "Then again the whole stomped-while-doped-puppy-dog look you got going there could have something to do with it. Unless that's gonna be a new thing now."

Sami shrugged, smiling. "This is the last time I show up for you."

Calder laughed. "Thank shit for that."

"Your new boyfriend," a girl said from across the table. The lip of her beer bottle was brushing against her cheek. Sami had missed her name. "How old is he, like twenty?"

"Twenty-two_,"_ said Calder. "I thought I told you I'm into older guys now. And he's still far better looking than all you bitches." That brought sniggers and guffaws.

Nobody talked about Sherman. Sami hoped that would made it easier for him to enjoy himself, but Sherman was still there, just underneath his eyelids. It was guilt, like he had been a part of his death, his murder, even though he knew that was silly. He didn't believe in curses or things like that. He didn't believe that Sherman somehow deserved death, even if it had been clean, like a bullet to the heart, and not _that._ The reporters and eyewitnesses who discovered the body said they thought it was a manikin of a child lying on the floor. When they got a closer look with their cameras, Sami saw the charred mouth opened in a silent scream, scraps of cloth still stuck to the bone white teeth.

Mac had laughed about it that morning. He was one of the few childhood friends that Sami still kept in touch with, so of course he'd been the first person Sami turned to after seeing the newscast. The waste manager uniform was loose on Mac's flat, thin shoulders. Sami had never made a comment about it, as a job was a job, but he had never felt so strongly in comparing Mac to the trash he gathered from bins and the streets. When Sami told him about Sherman, and Mac mentioned he already heard, Mac was grinning, rubbing his gloved hands together.

"Finally this Blake guy does something fucking useful instead of robbing trucks."

Sami had stared at him, incredulous. "A man was burned to death and you're _laughing_ about it?"

Mac's grin had faltered. He blinked a few times, scratched the back of his head, and when he saw that Sami was serious, he shot back his friend's anger with some of his own, "The hell, man? Chill out. You hated the guy like the rest of us."

_No, I never hated him, I disliked him, I disliked his messages, his bravado, his…whatever they were. _Sami should've been laughing with Mac, not a full-on wild laugh, high and full, but a nervous one, more breath than bark. Mac hadn't really felt joy at Sherman's death, just like Sami hadn't really felt so bad, once he thought about it. Was it the way he died that made him so wound up?

Everyone was drinking around him, losing themselves in alcohol and each other. Hands fell on his shoulders, trying to engage him. He heard a smattering of discussions, from the weather—"But it was really hot in the beginning of summer."—to specific people—"Yeah, she said it! I shit you not, she said those exact words!"—to locations—"Yeah, I think so too, but I'm not good with directions. I don't know Hephaestus so I can't talk with certainty." Sami was swimming in words as if in a large pool, and if he didn't keep his head above he would drown in them. His back tingled, but didn't ache. His head felt swollen and heavy, as if submerged in water.

"…in the Games?" Calder was saying. He looked over at Sami. "You?"

"What?"

"The Games!" A girl punched him on the shoulder. "He's saying who do you think, out of all of us, would survive the Games?"

"I don't know."

"Bloodbath!" a boy yelled at him, slamming his bottle on the table.

Bloodbath was just a more dramatic and short saying of someone who was easy pickings. The Games were no longer set up around a ring of mined platforms around a cornucopia. The Mockingjay's Games or Capitol Games, whatever, Sami refused to be a part of it. Sami tipped his already empty bottle into his mouth, pretending to take a swing.

"Nah, Sami would break that bottle and cut somebody's throat with it," Calder said. "At least I would. They give extra points if you keep it going with the same weapon."

"Or if you kill a career monster," the same girl who spoke up added. Sami was still clawing for her name.

A hand fell on Sami's shoulder, this time from behind. Sami turned to look at Liv's strained, smiling face. She wore a heavy blue coat with black buttons down the middle. She smelled clean and fresh. When he took her hand, the one thing he had within reach, and kissed it on the back, she tasted salty, like the sea.

"You look like you could use an escape route," she whispered into his ear.

"Please," said Sami, and mostly meant it.

Liv plucked the bottle from his hand and plopped it on the table. "I'm sorry everyone, but I'm taking him with me."

Those who heard whistled, clapped, or tipped their bottles in salute. Her hands were rough on his shoulders, prying him from the seat. He clung to her as she led him outside into the bitter cold air. There were people loitering outside in the night, cigarettes protruding from their lips or strung out on the street, trembling, their eyes glassy. None of them had Frank's distinctive orange-red hair. Liv led him past all that, leading him from Graff street and onto Tinkten.

"How are you?" she asked. She wasn't looking at him, but down at her feet.

"Better, with you here by my side."

She looked up and gave him a slanted smile. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, rubbing at his head as if that would clear the buzz. "Now the noise only comes from one way."

"You mean your ass?"

"No, I mean—" Sami smiled. "Whatever, you ruined it."

They stopped walking. A banner flapped above them, but they paid no mind, staring into one another's eyes as they sought permission. Liv leaned in and Sami kissed her. He stopped himself from crushing her against his body in a hug.

"I've had a lot on my mind," he said softly.

"Sherman?" At his nod, she grimaced, "I didn't expect that. Not from Blake either."

That had been the one topic that Sami had grudgingly admitted to saying he and Sherman stood eye to eye with. Billy Blake, some low-ranked thug, a lifter, causing problems for Veston whenever deliveries were sent out to Lincoln. His co-worker Bitty had been driving one of the delivery trucks when Blake's men attacked, knocking her unconscious while they helped themselves to what was in the truck, taking what belonged to them and their people. She joked afterwards that she was lucky that was all they took and not her body. Sami feared a similar occurrence, the panic of seeing a truck or a bike flank him, bearing guns, forcing him to pull over. Now he feared those same men would tear him from his truck and light him on fire.

They were quiet again, Sherman heavy between them. They walked a bit apart, not holding hands, but brushing fingers, sometimes rubbing shoulders. When they passed by a store with reflective windows, Sami saw his blurred image alongside hers. Even distorted, Liv was beautiful, her features starkly contrasting his stunted, deformed ones. So what if her eyes were a little too far apart and her lips looked swollen? They were cute.

They were walking towards one of the many bridges crossing over man-made canals that came straight from the massive Thread river. It used to be called the Mississippi and it had been much smaller before the world Passed and the water swallowed the land. Now it was a massive black thing, water shimmering like oil under the lamplights and debris bobbing like bloated carcasses. They found a place to sit, beside the bridge where the floor turned to a steepled staircase towards a docking area. There were no boats. He heard people walking above them and beyond them, but they were unintelligible. He wasn't really paying attention.

"My brother," Liv blurted out. "He's getting worse."

"Henri?" Sami asked, then tried not to wince. _Of course. Who else?_ "What happened?"

Liv was searching the space around them for something to throw in the water and gave up, pulling at her hair distractedly instead. "He keeps on calling us and he doesn't say anything. Mom or Dad pick up the phone and all they can hear is him breathing. When they try to start a conversation, he just stays quiet or hangs up. I swear it happened like four times just this afternoon."

"You sure it's Henri?"

"It's his number that keeps showing up. He doesn't say anything. Not a damn word. We've tried visiting him, but he won't let us. Always says he's got people over. The other day my mom and I even tried to talk to the other victor, Ames, to see if he could do something with Henri. He seems to make it work with his own family, visiting them at least once a week." Her voice grew hard and Sami stared at her as her cheeks and ears went red. "But he didn't. He swears he talked to Henri and everything, but he's still the same as before. Fucking asshole."

"Yeah."

"It is times like these that I wish he'd just've died. Just like Simon did. He shouldn't have come home from the arena. Did you know that I was seven years old when he won? Seven." She repeated again with emphasis when Sami's eyes widened a little, not in shock but in clarification. "And it was great because despite what he did, at least he came out alive and had a small body count. I thought it wasn't that big of a deal, you know. I told you this before and it disgusts me to realize how stupid I was back then. Ames came out fine despite the fact that the kid he bonded with was playing his angle to stay alive, and Chipper…

"I don't know if you remember, but when he was called up for the post-Games interview, when he was asked about how he became so good with his slingshot, he said something…wait, let me remember…he said 'my dad took me out to hit cans with one until I was a good shot' or something like that. Then he mentioned that whenever a rock hit a kid between the eyes or when he—when he—" Her voice shook and Sami squeezed her hand. Her jaw tightened and her lips peeled back. "—when he _brained_ them, he said it was like how he hit the cans. When he was able to hit one and not miss. That fluttery, _warm_ feeling in his stomach." Her voice rose and she brought a hand against her forehead. "If that's what comes out, they should all just walk into the first damn trap."

"What do your parents say?"

"My parents? Oh, they told me it was necessary. Chipper killed them fast, they didn't see it as a problem. Something about him being able to deal with it his own way, because you wouldn't get anything done otherwise."

She wasn't crying, but her voice was high on the words. Sami tried to swallow and couldn't without it hurting. She had been carrying this, he realized. She had told him about Henri before and he had seen bits of him to know that what she was saying was truth and not some exaggeration. But this was the first time she was nearly screaming, talking so fast like she wouldn't have the chance to speak again.

Sami had been as young when he watched Henri win on the screen. The Axeman of Hephaestus, the change so sudden it was like turning a page and seeing someone else. A boy who had become a man. Sami had wanted to be like him. He carried a rubber axe and wrested with his sister and stepsiblings, the battle being one confusing mess, where they contradicted one another and voiced who they were, like Lacey "The Hangman's Daughter" from the Sprawl or Robert "Quickdraw" from Mjollnir. They had even said that the Lady Mockingjay should bring back the Quells, like the Games in the past, and put their picked heroes in to fight again, as a repeat of the Third Quarter Quell. He wondered what Liv would say if he told her that, if she would welcome it if it gave Henri the death she wanted.

"Maybe it's the drugs," he said softly. When she took a shuddering breath, he added, "I delivered some to his place a while back. He could be taking them to escape."

"If he wants to escape, he should just off himself. He didn't hesitate while he was in the arena."

"Maybe because he's…realizing it's wrong. Like how we…"

"I don't want to talk about it. I—" Now her voice broke and she wiped her tears roughly and shied away when Sami tried to hold her. "Let's just…I want to feel good. So stop talking."

Sami grunted as she shoved him onto the concrete surface. Liv straddled him and his body responded. They fumbled awkwardly and frantically at one another, delivering sloppy breathless kisses until Sami couldn't tolerate the pain that shot in the back of his head and spine. They picked themselves up, found a cheap room to bed for the night (which took a long time considering Sami had less money than he thought), and when they were alone, there was the frantic undressing, the contraceptive being applied, and the sticky tearing noise of their flesh as they came together and pulled apart.

Sami had an image of Henri and the woman he had been with, the last time Sami saw him. They had more in common with Henri than they realized, or maybe did realize. _Simple, simple and nice_, he thought, before his mind fragmented when Liv's head emerged from between his legs, her lips moist. _Forget, forget_, and his worry ebbed away inside while his strength kicked up, raw and primal and hot. He ignored the pain in his back, in his gut. Liv was breathless on top of him, smelling so strongly of salt, her belly taut, her hair wild around her face.

_It's not just fucking_, he thought, breathless as she was._ It's more._


	6. Lora

**LORA**

When Lora woke with Robert's arm overlapping her body, she lay still for a while, listening to him breathe. It was cute, the way he gobbled the air like the strawberry pies he was so fond of. His grip had slackened enough so that she could slowly roll over and face him. In his sleep, Robert's face was limp. His goatee was slick with drool. He exhaled and his sour breath made her scowl. She wiggled away. He muttered something unintelligible, but didn't struggle or moan. She stroked his forehead, grown wider since more of his hair was receding, then got up to make food.

Robert was awake by the time she returned with a sampling of breakfast. She had made eggs and toast, scrapping anything to do with meat. After what she had watched last night, she couldn't smell bacon the right way. Not for a few days.

Robert groaned as he sat up, opening his mouth as Lora filled it with a piece of toast.

"There's more in the kitchen," she told him as he chewed. "I thought about bringing it to you in bed, but I don't feel like cleaning up after you."

"Mmm, this is good." He swallowed. "Don't worry, sweety. I would've licked those sheets clean."

"You're disgusting."

"I thought you liked it disgusting." He scratched his hairy chest, grinning toothily at her. He stretched, twitching his arms, which were tattooed with the smoke-and-fire symbols of the Ashen Lodge. The look she gave him made him curl into a small ball like a clumsy porcupine, while his smile turned lopsided and strained. "I'll go and get dressed."

He wore the clothes he had on yesterday rather than slide on new ones, then eased himself onto the kitchen chair, peering at the spread before him. There was a jug of raspberry-pomegranate juice. Robert had never been able to stand orange juice or milk. Lora watched him pour a glass for her and then one for himself. His smile was large and infectious. It made him appear younger than his forty-seven years.

They hadn't had moments like these in nearly seven months, when they could just enjoy one another's company. They didn't live together; their jobs wouldn't permit it. While she stayed in a relatively comfortable house near the Eyrie's central, Robert lived in his Mjollnir mansion. In the past, the mansion would've overseen solar panels down below the cliff, a mark of his district's industry.

As a winner of the games, twenty-nine years ago, Robert was currently Mjollnir's sole victor. Looks no longer mattered. Now it was either luck or skills, and Robert had made no secret that he was good with firearms. He had admitted as much when he was interviewed, saying his family had been part of the company who fought against the Capitolites when they rebelled for the last time, taken part in the sacking of the Capitol city. He was trained, but had no experience, until he had crossed paths with a boy from the Bucket.

Lora couldn't remember the boy's name, but the boy had known Robert's. His pack contained a rifle. Robert only had a knife. The boy had been using the rifle as a club, screaming and crying. Robert emerged from the fight as Quickdraw, streaked with blood. He had saluted the nearest camera, thrusting the rifle in the air. "I dedicate this victory to our Lady of Flames! May we bask in her warmth and let our enemies burn!"

He was a loyalist, born and raised, and was among the first victors to be baptized to the Ashen Lodge. They believed in rebirth and saw it in the Mockingjay. But the speeches and promotions only showed one side. Everyone only saw an aging victor, Good Ole Quickdraw, who had driven young boys to swagger with toy guns in his heyday. They didn't see his retreats as a front, only saw the extremist's dead bodies in print as nothing more than the Oculi doing their jobs of weeding out those too violent, idealistic, or disingenuous, to rot in the Bucket.

Lora had folded her cards years ago. She was still known in that world, in her closeness with Robert. She was a bodyguard, a Gamemaker, a courier, whatever Mrs. Everdeen asked her to do, she did it. The Mockingjay's daughter wasn't ignored. Lora was thankful that she was still sought after despite the years, valued as a close friend of the family and not just for what she could do for them. Lora had started from dirt, in some small town in Windsor where the wheat extended for miles and miles, but she had been uprooted and planted in the Eyrie, and to the Eyrie she owed her loyalty.

Nineteen years Lora and Robert had invested in their relationship, and not all those years were spent together.

"Where's Abe?" Robert asked. "He's not going to eat with us?"

Lora glanced at the empty chair between them. "No, he's gone off to run some laps."

Robert took a slow sip of juice. "Staying healthy?"

"He's preparing." There was a tense silence, broken by their breathing and eating. "I told him the Games are still weeks away, but he wants to stay focused. He's also been seeing his cousins more lately."

"Saying goodbye?"

Lora gave him a small smile. "He's preparing for every scenario."

Robert smiled back. He was peeling the crusts off the bread, more out of distraction than any real distaste. "Has he talked about staying with me for a bit?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

"I wouldn't mind…if he stayed."

"I don't mind either. He should spend time with his father. He should get to know you better."

"Does that mean he already knows all about you?"

Lora shook her head. "Nah, not really."

The silence was thick and oppressive. Lora knew Robert was thinking what she was thinking, if not a slight variation. Abraham had come at a bad time, but they had both realized that any time afterwards would've been worse. Lora had been ready to retire, Robert ready to take a little less work. That was, until Robert had been kidnapped. When the ugliness of his capture had been settled and Robert was safe back home, there had been Robert's fits, his twitches and screams and trauma, and she couldn't subject their son to that. Abraham had been passed to one of many family members who took him for weeks to months at a time.

That also meant that, because Abraham was born in the Eyrie, he was an Eyrie citizen. When Abraham's name would be called up as arranged, he would represent the Eyrie along with his female tribute. He wouldn't have his father for a mentor. Robert insisted he was fine with it, that representing the Eyrie was better than the baked earth of Mjollnir, but Lora knew he was mostly fronting.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She looked up. "Huh?"

"You've just spaced out. Is everything alright?"

"Just thinking of the inevitable long day I'm going to have. I need to report to administration, talk to Missus Everdeen about our son, and see if I'm going to be relocated."

"Aren't you supposed to be retired from that?"

_I hope I stay retired_, she thought, but it wasn't with much conviction. "If they need me, I'll do whatever is asked."

Robert nodded. He understood that better than anyone. "If they do relocate you, I hope it won't be for at least another few days. I just got here."

"Do you want to go see Abraham while I get things sorted? I can tell you who he'll be visiting after his jog, and I'll let them know you're stopping by."

Robert nodded slowly. "I'd like that."

* * *

The center of the Eyrie was always bursting with activity.

Lora found it hard to believe that this place had once been one of the poorest places in the country. She tried to picture the Seam that the Mockingjay once spoke about, spreading out like some ugly scar across the sprawl that now stood in its place, and the thought…well, it was almost inconceivable.

It was market day in the middle of Hob Street, and the number of stalls almost blocked her view of the houses behind as she walked past. People jostled and walked with slack expressions on their faces. They smoked and spat and talked amongst one another in a cloud of noise and sweat. The majority of the people weren't coated in coal dust, their eyes weren't cupped in wrinkles, their skins weren't sagging or covered in welts and sores. That part of their lives was mostly over.

The Eyrie was no Sprawl, lacking the same cultural refinements and flashing neon signs promoting drinks and sights and, in some cases, companionship. But here, walking through the simple multicolored tents of the city, always made her feel comfortable. It was not without drunkenness and debauchery, but then again, what place was free of that?

Lora passed through a tent selling shirts and what the vendor insisted was authentic jewelry. Further away she could see a few people gathering by the soapbox the Ashen Lodge usually preached from come the weekend, which was currently being used to house this days' self-proclaimed social philosopher. There was only a few snippets of the conversation she could hear but the names "Billy Blake" and "Sherman" were enough for her to block the rest out, with a shiver down her spine.

A part of her considered stepping in. _This isn't my life anymore_, she reminded herself. Lora was a civilian like the rest of them. It was a numb, unreal feeling. All she had ever had as a job was working alongside Mr. Everdeen, the Mockingjay's son, in preparing the arena. It was a full-time job, but she had to fill her idle hours with something else besides reading files detailing extremists she had to seek out as part of the Oculi.

A couple of children raced past her, almost making her fall over. She looked past to say something, only to pause as she saw the plastic gun and wooden sword in their hands, as they advanced upon each other, laughing.

_A few weeks left_, she thought to herself, _a few weeks left to help create the perfect arena for my son._

It was her duty. Mrs. Everdeen had put her to it, making sure Lora would help her brother, as it was likelier something would go wrong if Mrs. Everdeen left Mr. Everdeen to his own devices than her being there to guide him. Lora owed her son Abraham that much and she wouldn't disappoint him.

The argument by the soapbox started to get heated as she left and the Praetorians had just started moving as she passed a corner. The commotion became a distant murmur behind her as she kept on walking. The dark building of the central administration drew closer.

She was a civilian now after all, and she did have an appointment.

* * *

Mrs. Everdeen was leaning back in her chair when Lora came into her office. She was dressed casually, wearing a gray shirt, her uniform hanging on a peg behind her. Her black hair came straight and long down past her shoulders with no bangs, making her forehead large and severe. Her blue eyes looked Lora up and down, and she smiled lopsidedly. Like the name she and her brother shared with the Mockingjay, Mrs. Everdeen resembled her, down to her looks; the way she smiled, and the stubborn set of her chin. She frowned over Lora's shoulder and Lora turned around to see the female guard who had let her through glance nervously around the office.

"What is it?" Mrs. Everdeen asked her.

"You want to be alone, Ma'am?"

"Yes." Mrs. Everdeen leaned back again. "I'm sure the ones up front have done their job well and relieved Missus Calhoun of anything that could cause me harm."

The guard still looked a little uneasy, but nodded. "Alright. I'll be outside if you need me."

Mrs. Everdeen waved her away. When the door closed behind them, she grinned, "Charming, isn't she?"

"I assume she's new?"

"Yes, and like always they think they're the first ones to come up with even the most basic concerns. But I suppose they all have good intentions. You've found your way here okay?"

The administration was constructed to confuse and intimidate. There were always guards on patrol outside, letting in people who had appointments, and letting friends or relatives wait outside. Even though Lora was an old time friend of the Everdeens, she was still stripped and searched, and most of the things she had taken with her had been confiscated until her return. She had been led through one of the passageways with no fewer than two escorts.

Lora nodded in response.

"Sit, sit, I don't want you to remain standing like some servant."

"If that's your wish, milady."

"Oh, stop. We know one another too well to play this game. Leave it for the children." Mrs. Everdeen folded her hands on her table. "How are you holding up? I know that you and Reggie had a history together."

"He was a friend," said Lora, unsure by her comment of _history_, "but regardless, it was hard having to see that. I've never seen one burnt like that. They got it done."

Mrs. Everdeen grimaced. "Billy Blake's getting what's coming to him. I received reports about his work before then, but a couple of local malcontents in Lincoln raiding trucks didn't seem like they required our attention." She kneaded her face. "If we keep to the usual one-third hating our guts, we'll do fine. We don't need Lincoln wrapped up in this."

"So the rest of the country is stable?"

"Yes," Mrs. Everdeen replied, with a slight emphasis on the word. It made Lora sweat.

What was Mrs. Everdeen holding back? Could it be about Aztlán? They had rebelled forty-five years ago, during President Klein's rule. Aztlán hadn't made another attempt, not since the Mockingjay had allowed them to keep their old holidays and traditions, after promises from Klein, Tucker, and Dawson went unanswered. Aztlán wanted independence, but realized they would stand alone against the might of the other districts.

Lora pondered before she asked, "What about Pacifica?"

"They're a special case. Most we've ever had to worry about them is the inland clans or whatever new old tribal issue they decide to bring up, but it's only between themselves, not us. I think a lot has to do with their portrayal in the Mockingjay's memoirs and how eager they are to distance themselves from the past. They went from lapdogs to pack leaders when she took the reins. They don't want to be viewed like everyone sees Glitter Gulch. Or be made into a second Bucket…but then again who would? We might've been having troubles with Labrys had not our Lady and President Paylor shifted the blame to Coin's shoulders alone. That was a smart move. That helped prevent another war and keep their tech under our control. We hope to keep it that way.

"Regardless, Blake's little stunt might get some repercussions. It might set off some folk in Pacifica, mainly the groups and collectives who want to branch away from Panem, be their own republic. To keep that down to a minimum, the Mockingjay has asked me to send resources down that way."

"You want me there as well?"

"No."

Lora almost sighed in relief. "I hope my services aren't being forgotten," she said, trying at a joke.

"No, since Joel is your replacement. Humanitarians usually make the best doctors, soothe wounds, make sure it's alright." Her smile slanted. Lora knew that look. While Joel was there quelling the obvious, an open target like himself would lure out whatever hidden threats might intercept the deal for Mrs. Everdeen's Oculi. "You're retired from that business."

"I don't mind helping you."

"Yes, but I would prefer you stay away from that for now. Do your job. Stay with my brother and help him with the layout of the arena. It's just about worked out for this year's Games, from what I've heard."

"Yeah, but getting there is a bitch and a half." She wondered how the Capitol, in their heyday, had been able to do it, build seventy-five arenas, all automated and elaborate, scattered throughout Panem. They had been resources better distributed amongst the populace and Lora was thankful that at least the arenas of today weren't so extensive. They only used the one located in the Sprawl, reinforcing it little by little, and then working with the layout from before. Below the arena, wires had to be checked, cameras had to be repaired and set, the arena's inner layout had to be planted for it to bear fruit in spring.

Mrs. Everdeen laughed. "It keeps the people happy. It definitely takes a load off my shoulders, knowing that it'll soon be all they ever talk about." She quieted for a moment, regarding Lora. "Your son will still be selected, fighting for our honor. You haven't told him about the arena, have you?"

That came so suddenly that Lora couldn't speak. Mrs. Everdeen was smiling, but there was something off about it. It looked like an imitation of a smile, as if it was something she had seen in pictures and she was trying to remember how to stretch the proper muscles. "Don't worry," Mrs. Everdeen said softly. "I know you haven't been giving him arena advantages. I'm just messing with you."

"There's the girl I know," Lora said, as if Mrs. Everdeen was seven instead of thirty-seven. It was still somewhat apt, as Lora was seven years older than her.

"Go home, enjoy yourself. It's only going to get hectic from here."

Lora realized that Mrs. Everdeen was dismissing her. She stood up, nodded. She held out her hand. Mrs. Everdeen looked at it for a second, as if it were an animal, before she took it.

_Enjoy yourself, _Lora thought, repeating the other woman's words bitterly in her head. She noticed Mrs. Everdeen watching her. The woman's smile was almost gentle.

* * *

A wave of relief went through Lora's body as she left the office, giving the clerk by the desk scant notice. Everything was going to work out. She wasn't going to be forced out of her own retirement nor was she going to have to leave her son behind. Mrs. Everdeen's promises were enough to lift her spirits and ignore the suffocating air on her journey past the bright walls. There was a part of her still chastising her selfishness with images of Reggie's smoldering body, but it was a small concern. She could suffer the nightmares and blame at a later point, because right now they were a distant reality.

She gave the guards her thanks when they returned her stuff to her, and she stood outside for a moment, allowing the sun to bake her chilled skin.

Then Nordgren stepped into view.

He was a gangly, awkward man, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, and his stomach looked like he'd swallowed a basketball. He was in his late forties, and looked like he was caught halfway through melting. Age pulled at his throat. His eyes were cupped in baggy sockets. His light blond hair, streaked and spotted with white, was slicked back with grease.

From just the awkward walk and look, Lora wondered how anyone could view Nordgren seriously, and yet here he was. He didn't reek of booze. That would've been one small victory, to see him drinking on the job instead of at home where he could congeal into his couch or whatever, a sack of self-pity about failed liberations and cajoling the people, a glass rolling from his limp hands.

Joel Nordgren was a supposed humanitarian, related to Tom and Ida Nordgren, who had lived in Windsor. She knew little about the Nordgrens aside from the fact that they had been very politically charged against most of President Dawson's policies, and very dead as a result. In their disapproval of the last president, Lora supposed they shared a grudging similarity, as Dawson's incompetence at keeping Panem stable had been the cause for the Capitolites to rebel, and the main reason the Mockingjay took control. If it hadn't been for the Mockingjay, Panem would've been brought back to the way it had been during the Capitol's power.

The Nordgrens had published books about liberating the career districts. Lora had never bothered to read their books, even before they had been banned. She saw Joel's sudden appearance as their lost child as a kind of juicy scandal. The Nordgrens had a daughter who died years later, probably because she wouldn't shut up about promoting her dead parent's work. And then there was Joel, who was kept alive probably because of his image and because he probably didn't seem to buy into his family's message. She scowled when she saw him coming. He was a shit and a windbag.

They might come from Falun, Windsor. They might glance one another in passing at the administration, might hear of one another's work for the Mockingjay and the Everdeens, might even have decent houses even if she were here and he was now living in Glitter Gulch, but they weren't friends.

"Missus Calhoun," he began, inclining his head, sliding his glasses further up his nose. "What a surprise to see you here."

"Joel," she said simply, trying to display a strained smile of her own. "It's been some time."

"It certainly has, dear," said Nordgren. "The public office treating you well?"

"Yes," she said. "In between the money and recognition, there are also the benefits. Not all of us can be rewarded for spending our time drinking whiskey from the drawer. Someone has to actually do some work."

He smiled, making his second chin wobble slightly. "I've almost considered paying you a visit every once in a while to rekindle it, but like you said, that's valuable hours I wouldn't be drinking." He sounded a little hard at the end, like a child threatening their own parents to leave them alone or else.

"What do you want?" she asked.

He glanced at his wristwatch. "I have a few minutes to spare before my appointment. I was wondering if you wanted to have a drink with me? _Tea,_" he added at her upraised eyebrow. He pointed. "At the Brew and Barrel." It was right across the street at a corner, a wooden sign propped outside showing specials that she couldn't read.

"Very well." They weren't going to get any enjoyment out of this, but she was pretty sure she knew what he was asking.

It wasn't very full. It was warm, light, with smooth wooden tables and soft stools to sit on. Joel picked the table nearest the door. Joel ordered apple tea while Lora was fine with water. She watched him pretend to be immersed in the tea for a moment, giving it a good sniff before timidly taking a sip. He was waiting for the right time, thinking she wouldn't notice if he didn't come off as too eager.

"Internal affairs have started leaking some verbal trailer," he said, looking up at her. "For some reason nanoswarms seem to be a popular subject for the new arena."

He was trying to draw her out, temping her with candy. Too bad the candy he was bribing her with was stale. Nanoswarms had been considered for a while, as Mr. Everdeen had been quite enamored by the prototypes the R&D crew had displayed. It had been scrapped pre-production, not just due to budget reasons, but the inability to control something that could kill every tribute in an instant, and everyone else if the swarm managed to escape the arena.

_And nanoswarms wouldn't give Abe any advantage, _she thought.

"Can't give out any spoilers, Nordgren," she replied matter-of-factly. "Those non disclosures we all had to sign are there for a reason."

"I understand. I'm just asking, as a concerned parent to another."

Lora drank, pondering. She had never seen Nordgren's son, but Banner, one of the electrician in charge of wiring the arena, insisted he had. Banner told her the boy looked a little like Nordgren, in that he was tall and blond. There had been no mother involved. Nordgren had picked up the boy like one would do a stray wandering down the streets. It certainly made Nordgren look amenable. People tend to ignore the fact that if Nordgren was able to have one child, he was certainly able to have more, what with his salary.

"Your son is just as eligible for glory as the rest of the children," she replied. "There's no special treatment, as you know."

Nordgren's brown eyes regarded her for what seemed a long time in the humid air. "Yes," Nordgren said slowly, "I'm sure he is. I've been told as much. Regardless, the odds are always odds, and I'm sure no matter what that they'd fall…favorably. Gods know we need them right now, with the latest broadcast from Lincoln and all."

Lora raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

Nordgren lowered his voice. "I assumed you knew. Rumor's been quite vivid around the media department. It's only a matter of time before they get the go ahead to air it. I thought you'd have heard, what with your skillset, not to mention that _she_ would tell someone with your background."

Lora's eyes narrowed. "I assure you, I don't know much about it. Retired as I am."

"Didn't think an eye stopped being an eye until it was gouged out," he said, his eyes staring into hers. "It must be hard to restrain yourself, with all that training about keeping yourself in the loop. It must be _infuriating."_

"Yeah?"

"It's never fun to be out of the loop, to which I can fully understand your position. You are a parent yourself, so you might understand _my_ position in turn."

She pushed her glass away. She wasn't surprised Nordgren was dropping his earnings to keep his kid out of the running. She had heard and seen the attempted bribes that usually happened in advance of the reaping, either to keep their kid out or in, and sometimes it hardly mattered either way. She doubted Nordgren was paying for his boy to represent the glorious Glitter Gulch in its pre-career glory.

"Have a fun trip out west, Nordgren," she said. She left him with his mostly-untouched tea and the bill.

* * *

The door was unlocked when she returned.

A part of her didn't think much of it. It might have been that Abe had returned home and just gotten settled in the kitchen. She half expected to see him and Robert sitting together around the table and chatting heartily as she'd enter.

And yet another part inside her held back. Her hand tensed on the handle and she craned her neck towards the nearby window. The curtains were half-drawn, like a slitted eye. She went towards it, then halted abruptly.

_What the hell am I doing?_ she thought. _You're a civvie now. Try to act like it._

She entered her home and her paranoia spiked in her like quills. There was nobody in the kitchen and it was much too quiet.

_No._ She heard it. A faint muffled noise, almost subdued, like it was being pushed underneath the door in secret.

"Hello?"

"Hey."

She sagged in relief. It was Robert.

"Think you could come in here for a bit?" he called out from the living room.

"Sure," she replied, hanging her coat on the peg by the door. "Is Abraham here?"

"Just get in here, please."

Robert's reply was too curt and blunt. Her hands itched against her waist for an invisible gun. She could hear the screen in the background, but not Robert or an assailant. He hadn't used the code phrase, "I've left my keys in the sink" to warn her that there was somebody there. It could be nothing like that. She had to approach to make sure.

When she entered the living room, she did so slowly, inching her head. When she caught a glimpse of the screen, she froze. She recognized the bloodied face of Sherman, squatting down on the ground while hooded men taunted him in a sloppy half-circle. Her eyes shifted to Robert on the couch.

"I was looking for a rerun for Abe when I found this." He sounded haggard, as if saying this much had taxed him. He looked up at her and she flinched at the impact of his eyes.

"I think we need to have a talk."


End file.
